


The Architecture of Emotion

by VitaeLampada



Series: Soul Possessions [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Academy Era, F/M, How Spock/Uhura met, M/M, Nyota a Kelvin orphan, Spock/Uhura primary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:43:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 60,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7638904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaeLampada/pseuds/VitaeLampada
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Academy romance, but not as you might know it.  In this story Nyota Uhura also has a childhood that was changed by Nero, and this explains why she and Spock had a closer relationship in the reboot films.  Expect some of the usual tropes found in Spyota/Spuhura 'how they met' stories to be turned on their head, and I've been told the erotic content is 'slow burn'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Empty Seats

**Author's Note:**

> This was started on a whim during my summer break between the 1st and 2nd year of an Open University degree. If things tail off a bit in September 2016, it's only because my new course will be eating into my free time. I definitely intend to cover the period up to and including the destruction of Vulcan, and maybe after that. I have seen Star Trek Beyond so this work will contain spoilers.

No one sat beside her.

To be precise, in Lecture Hall B, Row 22 there were three empty places on her left side, and on her right an unoccupied aisle seat. But Nyota could handle that.

Popularity had never been part of her plan when she applied for Starfleet Academy. And nowhere in the Student Handbook was it advised that top graduates were the ones with the greatest number of friends. In fact, it was quite the opposite. The faculty biographies packed in qualifications, second and third degrees, awards, academic publications and starship rank promotions -- not friends lists.

Doctor Khauri, their first year instructor for Non-Terran Culture, was a perfect example. He graduated seven years ago, and now taught at three different institutions, including Starfleet Academy in Tokyo.  That was an impressive workload, even if the timetables did conflict.  Now and then substitute lecturers had to step in and take his San Francisco class.

Nyota suspected this might be the case today. They were several minutes past starting time, and no one had activated the video display behind the podium. Doctor Khauri liked his assistant to load the outline for each module, so he could refer to the points as he spoke.

Personally, Nyota didn’t need this visual aid. She had memorised the outline, and since this module covered Vulcan culture, she knew everything the professor had taught them so far. Very likely she knew enough to test out of these lessons, and gain extra study time. And wouldn't someone like her, someone aiming to reach the top of her class, take advantage of that opportunity?

Absolutely they would – no question.

Behind her, she heard the lecture hall doors open. A uniformed woman Nyota did not recognise accidentally bumped against the aisle seat as she ran past, heading down the steps towards the podium. Once there, she took a moment to catch her breath before she stepped up behind the microphone and activated the audio receiver.

“Good morning,” her voice came through their earpieces. The chatter in the lecture hall grew quiet.

“I’m afraid Doctor Khauri is not in California this week,” she continued. “But you are all in for a treat, because the department was able to arrange a special speaker at very short notice.”

Nyota heard the doors opening again, and scowled. Seven minutes late, whoever it was -- some cadet too busy talking with all their friends.

“And it will be a pleasure and an honour to have him join us today,” the woman at the front continued. “He graduated at the top of his senior class in 2253. And I’m sure he will have a number of cultural insights to share with us, having completed a particularly challenging mission aboard the USS Farragut--,”

“Lieutenant Chalmers,” a voice from the doorway interrupted, “the class has already lost valuable discussion time. I suggest we proceed immediately with the lesson.”

That voice.  That calm, even voice blasted Nyota right out of the present moment, and sent her hurtling back at warp speed, back to a single, crystal clear memory. She was five years old. She was meant to have a swimming lesson, but it was cancelled. Instead, she was taken by her coach to the Administration Building of Starfleet Africa headquarters in Dar-es-Salaam.

She remembered how much she had always wanted to get inside that beautiful building.  In particular, she wanted to stand on the oversized, seventh floor terrace which extended out over Oyster Bay. Her mother told her that terrace belonged to Admiral Migiro, part of her suite of offices, and to get there Nyota would either need to do something incredibly good or incredibly bad.

So it had been confusing, to be ushered onto that terrace by the Admiral’s personal assistant that day, and offered one of three chairs surrounding a table set for tea. A beautiful purple and orange parasol shaded the table, and her seat faced the blue green sea. Within reach there was a plate of chocolate cake covered by a glass dome. Cake like that surely meant that she had done something incredibly good.

Nyota's memory was interrupted.  An inner voice, one that years of training had recorded indelibly into her consciousness, reminded her that the start of an Academy lecture was not the best time to review the past. The cadet blinked.  Then she focused on the podium at the front of the hall, where Lieutenant Chalmers had moved away from the microphone to allow her senior officer, still in his science blue tunic, to take her place.

“My name is Commander Spock. I will cover sections three point two and three point three in your current module – The Ritual of Kolinahr.”

A Vulcan. She knew it before she saw him, from the first words he spoke. It went without saying that Nyota expected (hoped?) to meet another Vulcan eventually. She had tried to prepare herself – that had also been part of her plan when she enrolled. She didn’t want the encounter, whenever it came, and particularly if the meeting were some important milestone in her Starfleet career, to be clouded by associations with the past.

But she had hoped she would get some warning first. She was not prepared to be caught off guard by this substitute instructor’s voice, the measured pace of his words or the gentle enunciation which handled every consonant and vowel sound as if precious. And there were other ways in which Commander Spock reminded her -–

Then the inner voice, which was her childhood training, gave her another reminder to pay attention to the lecture.

“The first thing which must be made clear is that Kolinahr is not the repression of emotion."  As the Commander spoke he slowly walked across the stage with his hands clasped behind his back. “It is more accurate to understand it as emotional deconstruction.”

He walked just like Shauri did. And he did the same thing Shauri used to do with her head when she was talking, dip her chin so that her eyes seemed to be studying her feet and not the little girl in her care. But that girl never got away with anything—everything was seen and heard.  

Shauri was what Nyota was instructed to call her, when they first met. Two people came out to join the five-year-old girl who sat at that tea table on the seventh floor terrace of Starfleet headquarters. The tall Vulcan female sat on her right, and allowed Nyota to stare at her sharp ears and eyebrows without reprimand. Admiral Migiro, who took the chair on Nyota's left, did all the scolding.

“Miss Uhura,” the Admiral snapped, “it is good manners to greet company, not ogle them.”

“It should be overlooked,” the Vulcan woman said, “considering the circumstances.”

And then those sharp-browed eyes fixed themselves on Nyota.

“Miss Uhura, my name is T’Shin. Your great grandmother also gave me a Swahili name, which is Shauri. It means advice, or counsel, which is appropriate because shortly after your birth, your parents appointed me to be your guardian.”

Commander Spock’s voice intruded on Nyota's thoughts again, and created a temporary fade out in the film footage of that memory.

“With proper training," he continued his lecture, "Vulcans become aware of the architecture of their emotions.  They learn that emotions are differently structured.  Some have genetic foundations, being responses to biological need.  Some form part of the construction of our identity, or our cultural conditioning, such as our perception of family bonds.”

It was a beautiful construction, the Administration building in Dar-es-Salaam. It held itself in place while Admiral Migiro explained in her abrupt, military way what had probably happened to Nyota's mother and father, how their escape pod had been under heavy fire from the same mysterious craft which attacked and destroyed the USS Kelvin.  And as she spoke, the architecture of child Nyota’s emotions collapsed.

At the front of Lecture Hall B, Commander Spock returned to the podium briefly, although he did not have any notes there to consult.

“Beyond culture, there are also numerous personal experiences, similar in type but different in specifics, the details of which also influence certain emotions. While experiencing an emotional response, it is not typical to stop and analyse all the factors which have contributed to it, or to question those factors. Indeed, the disadvantage of emotion is that it interferes with our ability to rationalise when rational thinking is most needed.”

Once Admiral Migiro had discharged her duty, she excused herself, got up from the tea table and left the terrace. Little girl Nyota remained in a strange state, as if she no longer had a body. She could not feel her arms or legs resting against the chair, or the sea breeze on her face. She was detached, and yet surrounded by pain.

“Kolinahr,” Commander Spock clarified, “is a process designed to construct new neural pathways in the brain, so that emotion may be experienced without reaction, and with the full benefit of critical evaluation, which will prevent irrational decisions.”

Nyota did not know this about Vulcans when she was five years old. She cried at the table, so hard she could not breathe as much as she wanted. The silence and stillness of the Vulcan female sitting beside her were partly to blame. It was as if a sculpture had been appointed as her guardian, or a machine. As a machine, T’Shin/Shauri had a function setting for the dispensing of paper tissues. No matter how many Nyota got wet, Shauri made them disappear and provided dry replacements.

“But more than that,” Commander Spock went on, “kolinahr trains the mind in techniques which dismantle emotions quickly, identify the underlying structures and pass judgement on the integrity and logic of what is felt.”

“Sir?”

A cadet in the third row raised his hand. Spock acknowledged him with a nod.

“If Vulcans have the ability to create neural pathways that deconstruct emotions, why didn’t they alter their brain structure to eliminate them altogether?”

“A good question,” the Commander moved away from the podium again. “During the lifetime of Surak and after, a number of monastic sects attempted to achieve the elimination of emotion. I was taught that some succeeded, but in doing so lost all connection with biological need, and often starved or died of thirst. It should go without saying that they also failed to reproduce.”

The last comment caused spontaneous snorts and sniffs of amusement in the hall. Commander Spock gave them all a prolonged look with one eyebrow raised until silence resumed. The student who asked the question raised his hand again, and was acknowledged again.

“So, Commander, would it be correct to say the Vulcan people concluded that a certain amount of emotional response was …,” the young man paused to choose his words, “wise?”

“Indeed,” Spock replied.

Nyota waited, convinced the Commander would have more to say.  T'Shin would have said it. Long after the meeting at the tea table, Nyota would ask Shauri why she had tolerated such a noisy, messy, five-year-old’s display of raw grief. Her guardian was never so lenient after that. In response, Shauri gave her a proverb to memorise, from the third log of the Kir’Shara of Surak.

“There is a maxim from the Kir’Shara of Surak,” the Commander told the class, “which in Vulcan reads --,”

“ _Kai’-dith boylatik kwan-sum kau-bosh_ ,” Nyota said it under her breath.

Spock did not finish. His brow furrowed and his gaze shifted to the back of the hall, to the row of seats near the doors where one cadet sat with empty chairs on either side of her. A disturbing number of students also turned round to see where he was looking. Several faces wore expressions which clearly showed how much they enjoyed seeing the ice cold star pupil singled out for this kind of attention.

In the intensity of that eye contact, and all it caused her to remember, Nyota dropped the stylus she held to take notes on her PADD. It clattered and rattled as it rolled along the floor, dropping down to the next row of seats and the next and the next.

“ _Kai’-dith boylatik kwan-sum kau-bosh_ ,” Spock completed his sentence. “Or in Standard, ‘what is necessary is never unwise’.”

The stylus finally stopped dropping, but not Nyota’s composure. Her plan had failed – no, she had failed her plan. She, who knew Vulcans, had made a fool of herself in front of a Vulcan. She could hear the voice of her training, T’Shin/Shauri’s voice, calm but firm. Step away from the emotion. Step away until you become certain of what it is. React, and you fail to understand yourself.

But then it was too easy to remember how Shauri herself stepped away, eleven years after she arrived, and left Nyota to suffer grief all over again, without anyone to help.

The empty seats made it easier to get up and run out of the lecture hall.

***

Spock took questions for the last ten minutes of class, and stayed back to answer more. Lieutenant Chalmers came and went from his range of vision. At one point she stood a short distance away, conversing with another group of students. Gradually the number of cadets reduced, as they left for their next lectures or other commitments. Finally it was only the two of them left in the hall.

“Commander,” she laughed as she addressed him, “to think I had such a complimentary introduction lined up for you, and you didn’t let me finish.”

“I have not forgotten the one you gave on Tuesday when I was asked to stand in for Professor Yonezawa and supervise the second year Romulan lab.”

The lieutenant laughed again. “It was a little long.”

“Two minutes, thirteen seconds,” Spock added. “But perhaps you are working to surpass some new benchmark. Does Starfleet now recognise the length of guest faculty introductions and bestow awards for the most detailed?”

“Next time we’re asked to cover a class, I’m going to tell them just how good your jokes are,” Chalmers retorted. “Oh, hang on. I thought you might want to see this.”

She walked over to the case she’d brought with her, stowed underneath a front row seat. She reached inside it, pulled out a small object, and brought it back, held it out for him to see.

“This belonged to the student who ran out on us.”

It was a stylus. When Spock was a cadet, it was fashionable among Terran students to own many of these, and to personalise them. Even his Andorian roommate succumbed by his final year, and had five in different shades of blue, each with a decorative crystal bead fixed to the non-writing end.

This stylus was more subdued, and sturdy. The shaft was brushed titanium. The non-writing end had a simple fitted nib, but on the flat face of that nib was very fine engraving.

“Is it?” Lieutenant Chalmers asked, pointing where he was looking.

“It is Vulcan,” Spock confirmed. “A family sigil.”

“Strange. I tried asking the other students if anyone knew her, and could return it to her.”

“And?”

“I must have asked at least twenty people. They all knew _about_ her – apparently she has topped first year examination results that often. And yet nobody knew her, if that makes sense. Nobody seemed to have met or talked with her, or knew anyone who might be a friend. They tried to guess her name from memory, from the exam listings. ‘Something African’, was the best answer I got.”

“When do we need to report back to the Farragut?” Spock asked.

“Not until 1400 hours.”

“You are dismissed until then,” he said, and took the stylus from her. “If anyone asks you my whereabouts, tell them I am visiting the Dean of Students.”


	2. Efola Means 'To Melt'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the very warm welcome to Archive Of Our Own.

URGENT INFORMATION -- PLEASE DO NOT IGNORE

CADET NUMBER 56-1704  
UHURA, NYOTA  
RESIDENTIAL REASSIGNMENT

Above named student to vacate and remove all personal belongings from [Sato Hall, Wing 7] no later than [0900, Saturday 14th March 2257]. Security voice recognition permitting your entrance to this accommodation will cease from that time.

From [0900, Saturday, 14th March 2257], voice recognition will allow access to [South Axis Apartment, Messier 18 Cluster].

Reasons for the reassignment were detailed in memorandum 734/9078/2341, the receipt and acceptance of which you have confirmed in writing.

STARFLEET DEAN OF STUDENTS OFFICE  
MEMORANDUM 734/9078/2370

The entrance to Messier 18 was made of semi-transparent silicate, tinted green and gold. The door panels fit together along tongue and groove edges. Lighting created the illusion that some sort of luminous fluid moved inside them.

This was one of the good things. Her seven dorm mates in Sato Hall were all surprised, a couple bitchy. One of them accused her outright of bribing the Dean to get this reassignment. Apparently nobody got inside the Messier Clusters except seniors or postgraduates with faculty jobs. Each cluster had four apartments in an XY axis arrangement which shared a common entrance foyer and semi-private gardens. The interiors were spacious, but furnished only for two.

This was one of the bad things. Yes, Nyota felt more than pleased to get away from Sato Hall, which had all the charm of a multi-storied chicken coop. She would not miss the twenty-four hour noise, of one kind or another, produced by eighty-eight young and active women divided from each other by the thin walls and ceilings. She would be able to remember the meaning of privacy.

And yet …,

She glanced again at the memo on her PADD, and scrolled back to the previous one, the one with the name of the cadet who would share the South Axis apartment with her.

“Gaila Jadillu,” she said aloud. The entrance doors recognised her voice, and opened. She steered her luggage carrier over the threshold and into the foyer. As the lights came on, she was deciding whether to recite the Orion phrases she had committed to memory, or take a minute to do some breathing exercises, just the basic ones T’Shin/Shauri taught her. She wanted to present a relaxed version of herself.

Instead the door to South Axis apartment opened and a curvaceous woman with crazy red curls rushed out, making a high pitched wail.

“Hellohihihellohellohihellohihello!”

She was wearing a chartreuse bikini. It matched the acrylic on her nails and contrasted with her skin, which was the colour of lime peel. Nyota slipped her PADD back into its case and held out her free hand. But the redhead didn’t stop to shake it. She veered right and went scurrying round the luggage carrier, touching each of Uhura’s bags as if she might take one. The dance ended with a squeal as the Orion came full circle and stooped just inches behind Nyota’s back.

“OW!!”

Uhura yelled and spun round to face this maniac.

“My god!” Gaila gushed, “You have the sweetest little ass I have ever seen. You must be so proud.”

“You just grabbed me.”

“Bootie like yours was made for grabbing.”

“With both hands!”

“Oh,” said Gaila, “would you prefer one at a time? Or maybe spanking – like spanking?”

“No,” Nyota said. “I --,”

Gaila was now bouncing on the balls of her feet, challenging the integrity of her bikini top. The motion, or something, was so distracting Nyota could not finish her sentence, could not recall why she wanted to start one in the first place.

“Maybe I was too rough. Maybe you like it softer and … slow.” Gaila’s right hand performed a pantomime caress: three lazy circles followed by a gentle squeeze.

“I don’t …,” Nyota could hear T’Shin/Shauri’s voice in her head, patiently asking, “Please complete your thought. You don’t what?” She took a very deep breath. Was the foyer programmed to emit fragrance?

Gaila gently removed Nyota’s hand from the handle of the luggage carrier.  "I’m so glad you came early," she said, and steered the carrier into the open door of their apartment. Nyota followed.

All the Messier apartments had similar floorplans.  Nyota caught a fleeting glimpse of their kitchen and lounge on her left as they entered.  But Gaila took a sharp right, leading her along a passage with faux stained glass panels set into the external wall.  On the opposite side more silicate screened off the sleeping area.

Where the screen ended they turned left into the bedroom and Uhura could see it was more than double the space she had had at Sato Hall, with bigger closets. And yet there was barely room for her luggage between the two twin beds. There was no room on the beds at all.

“I will get organised,” Gaila said, “honestly. This week has been – well, I suppose it hasn’t been easy for you either.”

Nyota opened her mouth, but didn’t use it to speak.

The beds were buried beneath layers and layers of torn fabric. No, that wasn’t quite right. Uhura reached out and pulled at the end of a piece that was silver and slippery. She shook it free from whatever had tangled with it, then held it high to study the shape, the strange fastenings and the abundance of thin straps.

“You,” Gaila said emphatically, “would look amazing in that.”

“You can wear this?”

“Here,” Gaila grabbed it, “I’ll show you.”

Off came the bikini, in two hand movements and a bit of shimmy. Then Gaila proceeded to wind the silver garment round her waist, over one shoulder and down between her legs. The placement of the fastenings began to make sense. The airy little straps fanned out over the Orion’s left hip.

“What do you think?” her roommate asked.

Gaila turned, to let her see how the outfit looked from the back. There was a tassel of beads at pelvic level that would swish back and forth like a cat’s tail with the right encouragement. The Orion showed her the kind of motion that made those beads sizzle. The same perfume Nyota had smelled in the foyer seemed to be in the bedroom now.

“When would you wear it?” Nyota asked, as Gaila turned to face her again, with one breast naked and the other indenting the silver cloth with its nipple.

Gaila made a confused face. “When wouldn’t you?”

“You are joking.”

Gaila let out a frustrated huff.

“I don’t get it," she said.  "It’s got more fabric than a standard Academy swimming costume.”

“It’s not the amount of fabric. It’s what gets covered.”

“In my Terran culture module we were shown pictures of naked people in sculpture, naked people in film, naked people in painting --,”

“That is art, Gaila --,”

“But I’m wearing more than they were!” The Orion’s voice rose a few decibels. “It’s just impossible to understand how you people do clothing. Back home, I had this made for me. I wore it to my coming of age ceremony. Do you know how much it cost?”

Nyota shook her head.

“I tried to wear it to the Academy New Year’s Eve Ball--,”

“You didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t. The dorm monitor wouldn’t let me leave my room. So I stole a coat --,”

“Stole?”

“Borrowed,” Gaila corrected herself, “but I still didn’t get further than the Stardome cloakroom.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

The Orion plucked her bikini top from the floor and threw it at Nyota.

“I was told you were going to help me!”

“What? Who sai d – how?”

Gaila glared at her suspiciously a few seconds. Then she knelt on the carpet and dug her way under the heaped clothing on the bed behind her. Her arm sank in up to her shoulder and had to be twisted before she found what she wanted and let out a triumphant “Hah!” She pulled a crumpled envelope from the mess and waved it at her roommate.

“Our invitation.”

“Our?”

“You got yours?”

“No.”

Nyota grabbed the envelope when Gaila’s gesturing hand brought it close enough. She opened it and drew out the heavy, embossed card.

“The Dean’s Dinner …,” she read aloud. “But that’s for non-Terran cadets.”

When she glanced up, Gaila was pointing repeatedly at herself. Nyota folded her arms.

“Yes, obviously. But in spite what some American students might tell you, Africa is not a different planet.”

“The Vulcan ambassador will be attending,” Gaila explained. “The Dean said you would make sure I chose appropriate clothing and didn’t get any undue attention from other guests.”

“What about your undue attention? Rule one – do not grab a stranger’s ass. With one hand or two.”

Gaila leapt to her feet. “So you’ll do it?”

Nyota pursed her lips. Another Vulcan, perhaps another chance to make a good impression. She shrugged.

“Great!” Gaila said, “Let’s go shopping.”

She unfastened the silver garment in no time, and flung it back on the bed.

***

When Nyota woke the next morning, she was wearing the thing. She felt a lump against the small of her back and when she reached behind to feel it she got a fistful of beads. She opened her eyes.

Gaila Jadilllu wore nothing whatsoever. The Orion slept facing her, with her hands crossed over her breasts and her head bowed. Her curly hair seemed to have doubled in volume; Nyota felt some of it in her mouth and saw more strands in her exposed cleavage.

Same bed. They were sharing the same bed.

Immediately her mind tried to go backwards, but it skipped over its recollection of the previous day like a stone thrown across still water.

She remembered that they did go shopping. After seven different outfits and a lot of nagging, she convinced Gaila that where knees, shoulders and back were concerned there could be no argument: these must be covered. They compromised on colour. Nyota told her Vulcans preferred subtlety, but Gaila made gagging noises whenever she was shown neutrals. They settled on white, because it was bright without seeming garish.

After that they had returned to the apartment. Nyota wanted time to unpack, but Gaila wanted to show her the study, and their kitchen with its tiny replicator.

“Non-alcoholic beverages only,” Gaila said, “but I soon fixed that.”

The Orion was going to major in Computer Science. Could hack anything, she claimed, as she proudly held up two shot glasses of bubbling blue liquid, and handed one to Uhura. Then they went back to the bedroom.  What happened after that?

“Ow.”

Gaila lay on top of Nyota's left leg, trapping her.  Remembering would need to wait  -- Uhura's toes had curled with cramp.

"Gaila … Gaila …,”

She tried to work herself free. Gaila rocked back and forth, but did not wake.  Pain put agony in Nyota's voice.

“Gaila!”

Finally the Orion’s eyes fluttered open.

“Uh? Oh,” Gaila tried to roll away, “Sorry.”

Nyota got off the bed as soon as her leg was free. She hobbled back and forth in front of their closet doors to try and relax her taut muscles.

Gaila giggled.

“I think you danced better last night.”

Nyota tried again, to work backwards in time. But there was no memory of this.

“I didn’t dance," she said.

“You did. Don’t you remember, how you said, ‘I can feel these bubbles in my feet’?”

She could remember.  She had sipped her drink very slowly and carefully.  It seemed to expand once it entered her mouth, and when she swallowed the bubbles seemed to spread out inside her, to places they couldn’t possibly reach.

“I’m sure I only had one drink.”

“I’m very sure,” Gaila said. “I’m the only one who knows how to replicate Orion _efola_.”

“ _Efola_ means to melt,” Uhura said.

Gaila gave her an admiring look. “Exactly. Helps relax inhibitions.”

Nyota’s jaw dropped.

“You drugged me?”

“Helped you settle in--,”

“Are you crazy? I could have done anything, hurt myself, broken something, run out of the apartment naked --,”

“No, no,” Gaila insisted, “I hacked the apartment security, delayed its activation. That’s why I came out to meet you in the foyer. It should recognise you now.”

“You drugged me and held me captive?!”

She didn’t let Gaila answer – the Orion’s coy expression said it all. Nyota reached up, grabbed the shoulder piece of the slinky silver garment she wore and pulled until she felt and heard the fabric rip.

“Hey, what?” cried Gaila.

Then Uhura went down to her left hip and tore out the little straps, one by one.

“Stop!”

Gaila scrambled to get off the bed but Nyota was quicker. She pulled off what was left of the outfit by grabbing the beads in the back, and fled to the kitchen. She had just enough time to throw the expensive costume in the refuse chute and activate the incinerator. Then someone caught her by the ponytail.

They both went down hard on the kitchen floor. Nyota threw punches with her eyes shut (not the best strategy), and a few of them hit soft targets before Gaila rolled her roommate over onto her stomach and pinned her arms behind her back.

“What were you thinking?” the Orion demanded.

“What were you thinking?” Nyota shot back as she squirmed. “Were you planning to set up the first Starfleet Academy slave ring?”

Stupid thing to say. The next thing she knew, her face was being pressed hard into the floor.

“How DARE you!” Gaila screeched. “You are the most hateful, ungrateful --,”

“Ungrateful?!” Nyota shouted back.  The words came out a bit distorted, because her nose and mouth were flattened.

“You helped me and I helped you. That was the deal.”

“Deal?”

She could hear Gaila sniffle. Then all the weight that was pinning her down let her go.

“I’m going straight to the Dean Monday morning,” she heard Gaila say tearfully. “All he’s done is set me up to be insulted. If that’s what I have to do to stay in Starfleet, I’d rather keep my dignity!”

Uhura rolled over carefully onto her side, rubbing her sore nose. She saw her new roommate had dropped herself onto a stool at the breakfast bar and cried without wiping the tears or her runny nose. Nyota stood up very slowly, and nothing was done to stop her. So she tiptoed back to their bedroom. She found her PADD in its case and switched it on, took it back to the kitchen and stood a respectful distance away while she reviewed her memos from the Dean’s office.

After a minute, she found the phrase she was looking for.

“Our aim is to encourage a close relationship with reciprocal benefits …,”

On first reading, Nyota had dismissed that phrase as faculty-speak, telling her to try and be nice. She didn’t take advantage of the Dean’s offer to meet and discuss the memo in more detail, because she didn’t see what there was to discuss. But maybe Gaila had.

_"You helped me and I helped you. That was the deal."_

Nyota read the memo out loud, putting emphasis on the 'reciprocal benefits'.  In reply, the Orion sniffed loudly.

“Maybe I am missing some information,” Uhura admitted. “What, exactly, did the Dean ask you to do?”

The redhead flicked back her curls haughtily.

“He told me to think of a way to loosen you up. He said you were wound so tight you wouldn't be suitable for any starship crew. You wouldn’t let anyone get close to you.”

Nyota swallowed to keep her throat from closing and her lungs from caving in like vacuum bags.

“Yes, well,” she used these neutral words, just to see if she could speak them calmly. In her mind she was standing before a line-up of people who had once been close to her. They stood like criminals about to be photographed after arrest; they stared straight ahead. One face was crystal clear.  Another was succumbing to that bitter fate of fading with time. The last two had no features at all.  Their heads were clouds resting on shoulders that wore Starfleet uniforms.

“You don’t know what I’ve been through,” she managed to get that out without faltering.

Gaila said nothing at first. She got off her chair at the breakfast bar, went to the sink. She splashed her face with running water and blotted the excess moisture with a tea towel.  Then she threw the towel over one shoulder, and walked over to where Nyota was standing.

“Yes I do,” the Orion informed her, “because you told me.”

For the first time that morning, Uhura felt truly naked.

“What?” She backed away. “Everything? Mama na baba? Shauri? Tiberious?”

Gaila nodded. Nyota buried her face in her hands.

“Oh my god. Oh my god!  What will you … why I can’t remember anything?  How do I know what else I --,”

She stopped a moment, caught by a sudden realisation.

“Did we have sex?”

Was it good or bad that Gaila laughed?

“Oh Cutie Bootie,” Nyota felt herself being hugged. “You didn’t want sex. You wanted to dress up in pretty clothes, go dancing, laugh and cry with your best friend and tell her all your troubles.”

There was perfume in the air again, and a warmth that went from inside out, instead of the other way round. Orions were good at this.

After ten minutes, or maybe fifteen, Nyota sighed and said, “Well okay. But can we have one more rule? No amnesia inducing substances. If you’re going to be my friend, I want to remember the times we spend together.”

“Deal,” Gaila replied.


	3. The Dean's Dinner

Spock was out by one point seven seconds. When Dean Rousseau excused himself, and left the meeting room to receive an important transmission, Spock estimated that his father would initiate a discussion about marriage within half a minute.

Sarek, ever the diplomat, crept up on his subject from an unexpected direction.

“Your cousin Tivan has given birth to her third child. A daughter.”

Spock responded with a glance across the table. His father’s hands rested flat on its surface, one on each side of his teacup. Perhaps Sarek was under the impression that his wife Amanda had informed their son about the previous offspring. But in reality, the written messages Spock received from his mother while serving aboard the USS Farragut rarely mentioned extended family.  He was not aware that Tivan had become a mother at all.

“Your uncle told us the news in person,” Sarek went on. “Karn will oversee the geological aspects of modifications to transit links within Shi’Khar, and stayed with your mother and I throughout the initial consultation.”

And that left Spock to imagine the scene. Karn was now grandfather of seven -- or perhaps more.  Sarek might shortly update him regarding the fertility of his uncle’s other children. Karn, the productive branch in the line of Skon, would have announced this latest arrival while staying in the house of his younger brother, which had never seen grandchildren, nor likely would.

“Did the consultation proceed acceptably?” Spock asked.

“It did. A study of soil mechanics and stability of existing structures will commence in fifteen days’ time.”

Meaning Karn would return, and family bonds would oblige Sarek to offer hospitality again inside his barren home.

“He also told us,” the ambassador added, “that Lelar has finished her time of mourning.”

Lelar had been in mourning?

Spock knew that Sarek watched for and caught the minute change of expression in his face. A human would have spotted nothing, would not have realised that the Ambassador had succeeded in surprising his son.

Only then did his father explain.

“Nine months ago, Savid agreed to assist a Starfleet investigation of abandoned Romulan encampments on Rigel. He contracted _myruuthesia_ , and the symptoms were not recognised soon enough.”

A most effective coded message, Spock thought. By giving him this straightforward piece of family news, Sarek had also managed to include a warning: that space travel was life-threatening, and more so if a Vulcan chose to travel with non-Vulcans. And, while it was true that Karn had lost a son to Starfleet, he could at least take consolation within the bonds of his expanding family.

And then Spock perceived another coded message. And he conceded that his father was an exceptional negotiator, particularly where the issue was contentious. Lelar, Savid’s wife, was now a widow with children. Given her age, she would likely seek a new bondmate.  And given her circumstances, the hybrid and potentially sterile cousin of her late husband would not be an unacceptable candidate.

“Father,” Spock began, intending to protest.

“Karn initiated the discussion,” Sarek interjected. “And Lelar is amenable.”

“Amenable to my long absences during away missions?”

“The particulars would be best agreed between the two of you.”

“Amenable to raising her children on Earth while I am teaching here?”

“I can arrange a meeting at the Vulcan Embassy, if that would be more convenient.”

“Amenable enough to accompany me on board ship?  No,” Spock answered his own question, “I doubt that, given the circumstances which caused the loss of her first husband.”

“Spock,” Sarek lifted his hands from the table and placed them on his lap, “Given what recently occurred during your time on board the USS Farragut, is it not logical to reconsider your decision to serve in Starfleet?”

Spock had no quick comeback to this argument. His thoughts were momentarily diverted, as he tried to work out how his father had learned about his second pon farr. On top of that, the silhouette of Dean Rousseau was visible through the semi-opaque wall of the meeting room. He was giving some instructions to his Assistant Bursar, but his head was also turning to face the security panel which would allow him back inside.

Therefore Spock had to settle for a reply that failed to address Sarek’s enquiry, but merely closed the discussion.

“I would not wish to choose between my duties as an officer and my obligations to a wife.”

The Dean opened the door, but did not come inside.

“Ambassador, Commander, my apologies. The transmission lasted longer than I expected. As we are running late, shall we beam directly to the Villa?”

***

A transporter room had been constructed inside the Villa’s former stables. When Spock materialised on its platform, he looked up at the ceiling with its oak beams and recalled they had been decorated with boughs of _ilex aquifolium_ and tinsel the last time he visited.

The original estate had been the property of a 20th century vintner. After several subsequent owners and a long period of dereliction, Admiral Jonathan Archer bought what was left. He achieved an admirable restoration and left the property to Starfleet in his will. It was used for occasions that were best held away from the bustle of San Francisco headquarters and the Academy.

Dean Rousseau appeared on the transporter platform beside Spock, and his father in front of the Dean. They left the stable block by the north doors to reach the main house by covered walkway.

The walkways were Archer’s addition. As age affected his mobility, he wanted to access all parts of his property by wheelchair. Spock noted that the roof had been recently painted, and _jasminum officinale_ had grown to the top of the vaults and obscured the posts with their dense cover of white flowers. The scent of those blooms, the first time it filled Spock’s nasal passages, had given him a headache.  He was more accustomed now.

Non-Terran cadets were invited to the Villa every year, to spend a weekend away from campus after their final exams had finished. The event fulfilled several aims. It provided time for greater xenocultural understanding, for assessment of the cadets’ adjustment to academic and social demands and where possible, opportunities for personal development. It also offered a rejuvenating change of scenery.  On both sides the walkway looked out over grassy expanses with gentle hills, no other buildings or vehicles or crowds. It was a chance to become better acquainted with Earth, rather than earthlings.

The three men reached the house, where the walkway curved up and around to bring them level with the portico entrance and from there they turned into the reception area.

Spock preferred this room to others in the Villa. Terrans called it a solarium, a corridor with south facing glass walls and ceiling which trapped the sun’s heat and let in all its light. Dean Rousseau was stopped at the entrance by Tiavro, his aide and the first Betazoid graduate.

While they talked, Spock surveyed the mingling guests.

He recognised his former Academy roommate Bovial Ch’ziaqis conversing with two Andorian cadets. Bovial was in mid-sentence when they made eye contact, and he acknowledged the Vulcan with a nod. Doctor Khauri had the attention of a Tellarite female. Three Troyians were examining the sharp, silver leaves of a potted _brahea armata_ near the bar. Cadet Gaila Jadillu appeared to be offering her drink to an Ardanian student, while leaning forward to sample his.

And at the opposite end of the corridor, from the doorway which led to the guest wing, a Vulcan woman appeared.

Or that was Spock’s initial impression. Her cloak looked ha-solek brown while she stood in shadow, but as she stepped into the sunlit room the moving fabric on the billowing sleeves showed hints of green and gold iridescence. Terrans would have described her fitted robe underneath as the same colour, but it was lighter, a perfect match with her skin. Her sash was the same. It draped loosely over her head and under her chin, and was bar fastened to her cloak at the shoulder.

He watched her gliding motion as she made her way across the tiled floor. She paused once, and inclined her head to gaze out the windows. That presented him with her profile. Her features seemed like work delicately executed; for a moment she looked like sculpture, a single cast bronze.

And then cadet Gaila Jadillu laughed loudly, and the work of art became a woman again. She turned to look in the Orion’s direction and smiled.

“Commander?”

The instant the Orion spotted the Vulcan female, she let out a high pitched squeal. She moved as quickly as her treacherously high heels would allow, until the two stood face to face.  Then they embraced.

“Commander?”

After they separated, Cadet Jadillu stroked the fabric of the brown cloak, touched the embroidered lapels and traced the shape of bar fastening with her fingers. Meanwhile, the Vulcan female reached up, took her sash in both hands and pulled it off her head.

“Commander Spock?”

Tiavro waved a hand in Spock’s line of sight, and finally got the Commander’s attention. Before he spoke again, the Betazoid aide rolled his eyes to the left, a hint that it would be advisable for Spock to look in that direction if he could. When he did, he saw his father’s gaze fixed on him.

“Commander, the Dean wants you to know that the seating arrangements for dinner have been altered as you requested.”

Spock made one attempt to connect with his father through their familial bond. It was like sending a comm message which no one picked up, and was not unexpected.

“Thank you,” Spock replied, when he faced Tiavro again. Then he excused himself, and crossed the room to speak with Bovial until they were called to the dining room.

***

Before the dinner bell rang, the Dean’s aide came over and introduced himself to Uhura. “Ensign Tiavro Dre of Betazed,” he bowed. “May I show you and Cadet Jadillu to your seats?”

They followed him into the dining room, to the far end of a long table dressed with white linen and silver. Tiavro put Gaila at the head of it, her roommate on her left. He sat himself beside Nyota.

“The Dean thought this would give us more privacy,” the Betazoid told Uhura in a conspiratorial whisper. “And I’m here to help. If things get … you know, if you think a break in proceedings is needed, tug on my sleeve. I can arrange a distraction.”

“Thank you,” Nyota said. So far, so good, she thought. Gaila was touching each piece of cutlery at the base of its handle, reciting.

“Soup course, fish course, sorbet, main course, dessert. Will the Vulcans have fish?”

“No,” Nyota replied. “And neither will we. Remember that.”

“Aye aye, C.B.”

C.B. -- short for ‘Cutie Bootie’.

Whatever Nyota taught Gaila, in preparation for this important weekend, the Orion quickly learned. She knew which physical attributes of her fellow guests she could and could not compliment in polite conversation. She knew nightwear was important, in case of fire evacuation or the need to share a bathroom. Appropriate footwear (Gaila put on thigh-high latex boots to go down to breakfast) would probably always be a problem.

But that was obstinacy, not ignorance.

At the same time, Nyota quickly learned that Cadet Jadillu was a master of disguise. Other people saw her lipstick and nail polish, her curls and her curves. They watched her jiggle and giggle and usually stopped there, convinced they knew who they were dealing with.

But they would be wrong. Gaila was not just capable (she tested out of all but fourth year computer science classes, and achieved top marks in those). Because of Gaila, they had the only replicator on campus which could produce panipuri with tamarind and date chutney. And if that wasn't enough, the Orion had also programmed the laundry routine to include an emergency, single item clean and press in four minutes. To be that intelligent, while giving the impression of shallowness, was deadly genius.

The dinner bell rang. Nyota took a deep breath.

“Oh, and your robes are beautiful, by the way” said the Dean’s aide.

“They are something else, aren’t they?” Gaila agreed.

But the Orion’s greatest achievement, in her roommate’s opinion, was how she had searched for and found the Nyota Uhura subroutine that used to laugh and love, and re-established it as the default programme.

What wouldn’t you do for a friend like that?

What Nyota had done was initiate a transmission with the Dean’s office. It made her a bit late for the pre-dinner reception, but she had to know – what could she do to repay Gaila's kindness?

“Good timing, Cadet,” Dean Rousseau had said. “The breaking news is that your roommate will be assessed this evening for a faculty aide position. Now, we both know she loves a good time. But if you can persuade her to defer her party instinct for one more night, and show off her intellectual assets after sunset, you'll be helping her Starfleet career.”

“Okay,” Nyota replied, “who will be her assessor?”

“Commander Spock.”

That settled her mind, in an odd way. Because Uhura had packed other dresses, perfectly suitable but unremarkable, so as not to compete with Gaila’s spectacular white gown. To bring her handmade Vulcan robes as well, and then decide to wear them instead, was a little selfish.

But Gaila had not only revived her roommate's joy and sense of humour.  She had also given Nyota hope. The robes were an expression of that hope.  They were her deliberate device to catch the Vulcan ambassador’s eye so that maybe he would ask to speak with her. He would surely remember her, and remember T’Shin.  If she could find a diplomatic way to ask the busy diplomat, she would just want some indication, perhaps some aspect of Vulcan culture she had never been taught, which might explain why her guardian had left her.

If Commander Spock would also be present, she felt the robes might be considered less self-serving. They might catch two pairs of eyes, and lead one to Gaila. She would be the Orion’s character reference – because what else would a Vulcan conclude, if he saw the kind of friend Gaila attracted?

In due course, Commander Spock arrived at the table and sat down opposite her.

“Cadet Jadillu, Cadet Uhura, good evening.”

They wished him good evening in return.

Sarek, the Vulcan ambassador, sat down opposite Tiavro. He did not greet the Dean’s aide. He looked directly at Uhura.

“ _Nyota Aminifu Halili Uhura_ ,” he said, “ _daughter of Basha Uhura and Azizi Degera, granddaughter of Doctor Aminifu Zawadi, great granddaughter of Nyota Cheboi_.”

He had addressed her in high Vulcan. Commander Spock, who had asked for and was receiving Gaila’s impressions of the Villa, broke eye contact with her momentarily to glance at both his father and Uhura, raising one eyebrow.

“ _Esteemed Ambassador_ ,” she replied in kind, “ _you honour me with your remembrance_.”

Tiavro broke in.

“You … already know each other?”

Sarek replied in Standard. “Ensign Dre, are you as familiar with Vulcan history as with its language?”

“Apologies, Ambassador,” the Betazoid confessed, “I don’t speak Vulcan. I was reacting to --,” he paused, dropped his eyes as if embarrassed, “to your, if you’ll pardon the expression --,”

“Understood,” the ambassador said, and the Dean’s aide let out a breath.

But Tiavro was insistent.  “You intended to address Cadet Uhura only, and I ought to have respected your privacy.”

“I will satisfy your curiosity, nevertheless,” Sarek replied. “I met Cadet Uhura in October of 2239, in Dar-es-Salaam, when she was eleven years old.”

“Eleven years, six months, one week and three days,” Nyota added.

There was a pause as the soup course was served. As Nyota blew on her first spoonful, she caught Gaila’s eye and gave the Orion a look which asked, ‘How are you doing?’

Gaila winked, then gave her the same look in return. Nyota intended to smile, but was distracted when Sarek spoke again.

“I expect you are already aware, Ensign Dre, that Terrans are the least telepathic of all humanoids.”

“Well,” Tiavro said diplomatically, “even among Betazoids there are degrees of ability.”

“Shortly after Vulcan’s first contact with Terrans, there was debate among our scholars whether human psi sensitivity would continue to develop through evolution, or had already evolved to its fullest extent. A xenolinguist named T’Shin obtained High Council funding and a team of researchers who came to Earth in 2110 to conduct a multi-generational study.”

Uhura noticed a deep line creasing Commander Spock’s forehead as he ate. Gaila was about to tap her spoon on the rim of Nyota’s soup plate, and was stopped just in time by Her roommate's sharp look.

“Sorry,” Gaila mouthed her words, “is he talking about your --?”

Nyota nodded.

“Interesting,” Tiavro said to Sarek. “How was the study conducted?”

“Human volunteers were chosen from Africa, Europe and Eurasia, and tested for telepathic ability. The highest scoring candidates were trained in mind control techniques, much the same way Vulcan children are taught. This training was ongoing; typically researchers lived with their volunteers.”

“Was it hoped that the DNA of the test subjects would be altered by the training?”

Sarek nodded. “And that their offspring would have superior ability as a result.”

“Fascinating.”

Commander Spock and the Dean’s aide said the same thing at the same time. Tiavro apologised again for letting his telepathy get the better of him.

“Indeed,” Sarek agreed. “Unfortunately, results showed little difference between the test scores of most parents and children. The study was continued, with a smaller number of volunteers, into a third generation.”

Nyota put down her spoon and closed her eyes at this indirect reference to her parents.

“And then?” Tiavro asked.

“There was no statistically significant increase in ability when the third generation was tested. The Vulcan High Council took the decision to withdraw funding.”

“I see,” said Tiavro.

As waiting staff appeared to remove the soup plates, Nyota felt a light touch on the back of her left hand, which she had balled into a fist on her lap. And she felt questioning concern. She opened her eyes to find the Betazoid watching her. She tried to send him reassurance, but also a request that he let the subject drop.

He seemed to understand, because he thanked the waitress enthusiastically for their soup and reminded her that the five of them would not be eating fish.


	4. Damage and Reparation

Throughout the sorbet and main course, Commander Spock asked Gaila questions. Nyota watched the Orion's table manners, ensured her glass was refilled with water only, vetted the tone and volume of her voice.  She could not easily follow the discussion about coding languages and systems analysis. She could only judge by the incline of Spock’s brow and the considered nods he gave to Gaila’s comments that the Commander was impressed by her suggestions for syllabus changes.

The assessment ended with the arrival of dessert. Both Vulcans chose to forego the parfait, and ambassador Sarek had a preoccupied look, as though his mind had already moved on to his next diplomatic obligation. He might choose to leave anytime, Nyota thought. What else could he tell her? T’Shin had never mentioned the Vulcan High Council’s decision, which effectively discarded her life’s work. Could that explain why she disappeared?

So Uhura ignored her own dessert and asked in Vulcan. “ _Ambassador, was it not the case that some of T’Shin’s test subjects did inherit improved telepathic ability?_ ”

Nyota was not certain she could read Vulcan faces; she had only studied one closely. But she was sure the look Sarek gave her barely concealed its irritation.

“ _I believe you know the percentages, Cadet._ ”

“ _Only two point one seven percent of second generation subjects showed greater ability than their parents. Only zero point eight four percent of third generation subjects showed greater ability than their parents,_ ” Nyota allowed.

“ _Correct_.”

She was aware she now had Commander Spock’s full attention. He had striking, dark eyes that were difficult to ignore at close range.

“ _And yet,_ ” she continued, “ _one family of test subjects exhibited continual improvement, each generation exceeding the test scores of the one previous_.”

“ _One family, in a random sample of several hundred families, is not statistically significant._ ”

“ _Yet palaeontologists concur that all human DNA can be traced to a single ancestor._ ”

Beside her, Tiavro sensed a shift in the emotional current. He left his parfait half eaten. Gaila, who had finished hers quickly, gazed with longing at the food going to waste.

“ _What is your point?_ ” Sarek asked.

“ _That one family can grow into a statistically significant number, given time._ ”

“ _Let us assume this growth you describe,_ ” the Ambassador countered. “ _The family in question would become more than a statistic. In time they would become a noticeably different group within the human population. If there is no change in psi ability among the majority of Terrans, at what point will this psi advantaged group consider itself to have become a different species?_ ”

Tiavro had his hand on hers again. He was anxious; something he could sense from Sarek told him she was heading into dangerous territory.

“ _I thought …,_ ” Nyota began to say, before his touch. Then she was less confident.

Ambassador Sarek carried on. “ _I would be interested to know your thoughts, Cadet Uhura. If we continue with our assumption, to the point where this significant population of highly developed humans exists, how might Earthlings react, given Vulcan involvement in their creation? If this were the eventual result of T’Shin’s experiment, would it not constitute a violation of Starfleet’s Prime Directive?_ ”

Yes, she believed, it would. But she had wandered away from the point she really wanted to make. She shook her hand free from Tiavro, whose warnings were too distracting, and thought about her next question.

“ _Yet what is done is done, Ambassador. A fourth generation exists, with mental faculties which are closer to Vulcan._ ”

“ _Closer,_ ” Sarek allowed, “ _but not close._ ”

“ _Is that merely because the training has stopped? If it were allowed to continue--,_ ”

“ _The High Council is not interested in creating a human master race._ ”

“ _I am not asking for this._ ”

“ _May I clarify what you are asking?_ ”

Nyota knew she was defeated. She decided to lay her cards on the table.

“ _T’Shin disappeared when I was sixteen. I want to know why. I need to know where she is. I need to see her again._ ”

“ _If you were a blood relation--,_ ”

“ _I am her daughter. She always called me her daughter._ ”

Nyota looked at Commander Spock as she said it. Sarek was a lost cause. But the Commander’s eyes were wide, as if he could not quite believe what he had witnessed. When she turned to face the Ambassador again, he had pulled up the sleeve of his cloak, and planted his elbow on the table so that his arm and upturned palm faced her.

“ _Place your hand against mine,_ ” he said.

Nyota looked horrified.

“C.B.?” Gaila whispered.

“ _Ambassador--,_ ” Spock protested.

“ _Place your hand against mine,_ ” Sarek repeated.

What did he want? Would he tell her this way? Nyota took five timed breaths with her eyes closed, to ground herself. She asked Tiavro for help to adjust her sleeve, and to move some of the dishes aside. Then she shifted her chair slightly, cushioned her elbow with a folded table napkin, and made contact with the Ambassador’s hand at the heel before lowering her fingers against his.

For several seconds there was nothing, no thought transfer even when she sent requests.

Finally, Sarek contacted her telepathically. -I will not give you this. You must take it.-

She almost removed her hand. He was asking her to be rude, more than rude, barbaric. He was asking her to rape his mind.

She told him. -T’Shin would not teach me this.-

-Very wise.-

The next thing she felt made her catch her breath, and she did break contact, just.

“ _Are you not able to defend your mind against mine?_ ” the Ambassador asked aloud.

“ _I—I did not expect …,_ ” She could not finish her thought for shock.

“ _Ambassador,_ ” Spock’s voice had an edge.

“ _Let her prove herself,_ ” Sarek replied curtly.

Fury replaced her shock. Prove – prove what? That she could fight him off? How would that help her? How did this become a contest?

Sarek waited, unmoved. And she knew her defeat was sure; she was facing the certain death of her last hope.

So she put her hand back in place, and locked eyes with the Ambassador.

The pressure began like a migraine, making her vision double. She could block that. But then, gradually, she could no longer feel the fingers on that hand, or the point of her elbow on the table, or the reassurance Tiavro was sending her covertly, under the cover of her sleeve. The laughter in the dining room and the clinking of glass became barely audible. Then it went completely dark, and Nyota realised she had lost track of her breathing, could not feel herself taking breaths. Sarek was breaking down the resistance of her frontal lobes by attacking the back of her brain which kept her alive.

So how could she even surrender?

It must have been done for her. She came back to the sound of Gaila’s shaky voice in her ear, “Wake up Cutie, please, please.” And in the distance she heard a voice -- or perhaps it was a memory of Ambassador Sarek’s mind as it devastated hers, repeatedly asserting 'You are not Vulcan. You are not Vulcan'.

When she could see again, she sat up to find the dining room occupied only by herself and Gaila and Tiavro.

“Cadet,” the Dean’s aide put authority in his voice. “You have been subjected to considerable psychic disruption. You will need time in solitude to recover equilibrium. I can take you to a suitable place.”

He and Gaila each took one of her arms to help her stand, like she was a frail old lady. She was wobbly at first, but by the time they were out of the dining room she could operate her legs properly and the floor stopped moving.

“The original Villa had a private chapel,” Tiavro explained as they walked. “The restoration left out any religious symbolism, but the walls were soundproofed and I understand Admiral Archer designed it for T’Pol to use whenever she visited.”

There was secure elevator in the east wing that took them directly to the third floor of the house. Lights activated when they stepped into the anteroom, and Tiavro adjusted them to a lower setting. Then they carried on through another doorway to a room with small windows set high in the walls. Everything inside was the same shade of grey. At the front, two grey cushions sat either side of a low table, and on the table was a shallow granite fire pot.

Gaila got Nyota settled on the floor and fussed with the arrangement of her outer robe and sash. Tiavro filled the bowl inside the pot from its own spirit and incense decanters, and ignited the flame.

“Cadet Jadillu and will need to report to the Dean,” Tiavro beckoned to the Orion as he stood. “But I will return as soon as I can.”

“I’ll wait up, C.B.”

“Thanks,” Nyota said.

***

It was perfectly logical she should be here.

Spock caught the scent of _boswellia sacra_ as soon as the elevator doors opened, and so he tread carefully. He removed his boots in the anteroom, took his PADD and stylus from their pockets in his uniform jacket. Leaning against a wall, he accessed the public archives of the library in Shi’Khar, set up a search for mentions of T’Shin and let it run. In thirteen seconds he had links to twenty-eight different references.

He checked them all. Twenty-four were published papers presented to the Vulcan Science Academy on aspects of ancient language development. Two were submissions made by T’Shin about a possible study of psi ability in Terrans, predating the 2110 funding award from the High Council. The third was an encyclopaedia entry, just three paragraphs, describing her establishment of the project Renau Komihn, ‘human training’.

The last reference was a report dated 2202, compiled by Striak, one of T’Shin’s researchers based in Kuala Lumpur. A perusal of his charts and tables indicated no significant breakthrough with the subjects under his study.

All this supported what he had been taught. T’Shin was honoured repeatedly as a xenolinguist, in particular for her translations of proto-Vulcan cave inscriptions. During his schooling Spock recalled only a single mention, in passing, about her study of psi ability in humans. His instructor at the time described the attempt as ‘necessary to establish with fact what had been casually observed’ – that humans lacked the neurological capacity to aspire to the Vulcan mind.

And perhaps he had drawn a conclusion prematurely, without clarifying the truth. That same instructor had referred to T’Shin in the past tense. Spock had assumed, therefore, that she was dead. Yet three years after the date of that memory, his father admitted to meeting the woman in person, apparently training the fourth generation of her chosen family.

This reminder of Sarek caused another surge of the anger Spock had been fighting since the end of dinner. It was the reason he sought a place to meditate. He powered down his PADD, pushed himself off the wall and entered the restored chapel. In the dim light he noted where Cadet Uhura sat, and settled himself on the opposite side of the firepot, slightly off centre so the flame would not obstruct his view.

She resembled sculpture again. Her sash had been arranged like a soft frame around her face, and did not move. Her closed eyes were still; Spock watched the black cosmetic line drawn along the rim of each closed lid for any tremble or twitch. But only the corners of her nostrils betrayed her animation, flaring out and in, out and in, out and in.

By and by, she became the unintended focus for his own meditation, because he could not look at her and remain angry.

Twenty-seven minutes and sixteen seconds passed. The frequency of his brainwaves fell below eight hertz. The flame in the pot reduced by one half centimetre, which meant the resin had burned away. The coil of smoke rising from the ashes grew thinner and thinner until finally it could not be distinguished from the rest of the hazy air. And some creature – a bird perhaps, or a bat, flew past one of the windows.

After thirty-one minutes and four seconds, Spock saw the fingers of Cadet Uhura’s hand, the one he could see, curl up tight and then relax. She took more audible breaths, and her lips parted. She swallowed a couple of times before opening her eyes. For another two minutes and seven seconds they simply stared at each other.

She cleared her throat finally, and said, “Am I permitted to ask about Cadet Jadillu’s assessment?”

Her upper and lower lips, Spock considered, achieved near symmetry.

“Her knowledge is extensive,” he replied. “And her aptitude for process analysis and approach to application design are what I would expect of a teacher, rather than an assistant.”

Cadet Uhura took a long breath in and out.

“She is certain to obtain a posting in the department,” Spock added.

“With any particular professor?”

“Very likely she will work for me,” he said.

She let her eyes shift to the floor. “You … will not be completing the last two years of your contracted tenure on board the Farragut?”

Spock noted that she had committed to memory this public portion of his service record. He replied, “There are factors which, taken into consideration, make a sabbatical from starship duty the better option.”

He wondered whether she knew enough, about Vulcans generally or him in particular, to speculate on these factors. He decided to change the subject.

“I should take this opportunity to express my gratitude,” he said. “Dean Rousseau informed me that you have spent considerable time helping Cadet Jadillu learn the cultural norms necessary to adapt to Terran life, and to prepare for this assessment. Without your effort, she might not have been recommended, and Starfleet would have failed to promote a very talented programmer.”

He wanted to express more than gratitude. His parting conversation with Sarek had stayed within the limits of rational debate, though he and his father had ongoing disputes about where the boundaries of rationality did or did not lie. He did not accept that the assault on her psi defences was justified, not for any of the reasons Sarek gave. He felt concern, and would have liked to know exactly how she had been affected.

But there was no polite way to do that, when they were barely acquainted. Instead he asked, “Was your stylus returned to you?”

He wasn’t certain about the cadet’s sudden change of expression. She seemed alarmed. “You found my stylus?”

“Technically, one of your classmates found it and gave it to Lieutenant Chalmers, who showed it to me. I took it to the Dean’s office.”

She moved her eyes away and stared at the flame for twenty-eight point two seconds before looking back at him again. “Were you the reason I was reassigned to Messier Cluster 18?”

“I do not understand.”

“The stylus came in the same envelope with the moving instructions.”

“I see.”

“Did you recommend the move?”

“I made no recommendations. I told Dean Rousseau we were not able to find a student who knew you well enough to return your belongings.”

“Did he show you my file?”

“No. He merely mentioned your name. However,” Spock searched his memory and made a connection, “he did remind me that, during my first year at the Academy, I was not well known among my classmates. As it happens, I was also reassigned to different accommodation.”

“May I ask why?”

“A number of reasons. I contracted three different Terran viruses within four months, which made me unable to attend lectures. I was not … familiar enough with human habits of social interaction. And as a Vulcan--,”

Cadet Uhura made a short, dismissive sniffing noise.

“Did I say something to offend you?”

“No. Please finish what you were going to say.”

Spock hesitated. “As a Vulcan, I needed a private place to meditate. This was not available in Mayweather Hall.”

“Hmm,” Uhura tipped her head back. Stars were now showing through the windows. “Do you think the Dean regards me as a Vulcan?”

“I could not say. The only opinion the Dean expressed to me concerned your superlative academic record.”

“Hmm,” she said again. “Well, I suppose it matters little what Dean Rousseau thinks. As far as Ambassador Sarek is concerned, I cannot lay claim to anything Vulcan.”

Her face made a motion that did not seem controlled, a tremor at her jawline that rippled over the soft skin of one cheek. He felt discomfort in the same place. If she had studied his Starfleet service record, it would not tell her his peculiar pedigree. But if she really wanted to know she could easily find out. Vulcan genealogy charts were available at the Academy library. If she did, and learned what he had been careful to conceal throughout dinner, what he was always careful to conceal, she might assume he shared the Ambassador’s views about her.

“I have a second reason to be grateful to you, Cadet.”

She took her eyes away from their study of the stars and looked at him again. “Please explain.”

“I do not know what my father transmitted to you telepathically --,”

He got the expected interruption. “The Ambassador is your father?” He responded by bowing his head, and kept it down as a gesture of discomfort with that relationship.

“I do not excuse his actions by saying this, but I believe part of the intent behind his challenge was to demonstrate to his son the inherent superiority of Vulcan females.”

He waited through the twenty-six seconds of silence, not moving.

“I see,” was all she finally said.

“Given that he transgressed a number of Vulcan codes of courtesy,” Spock lifted his head carefully, “and resorted to psychic force, he has failed to convince me. In fact, your conduct during the challenge has convinced me of something quite different. You performed admirably.”

His anger, which had cooled to grumbling regret, lost several more degrees of intensity. He hoped he had achieved a measure of reparation, as much as could be done when meeting someone for the first time. She was very close to Cadet Jadillu. And Orions, while not telepathic, had other means of understanding the people who mattered to them. Perhaps, when Gaila became his assistant and they had established a working relationship, he would ask her if Cadet Uhura still felt any distress dating back to this weekend.

Or perhaps ….

“I have interrupted your meditation too long,” Spock picked up his PADD and stylus from the floor beside him and stood. “Cadet Jadillu was in the dining room with Ensign Dre and the Dean when I came here. If you wish, I could pass on a message.”

Her eyes had followed his as he moved. She had blinked seven times in that duration.

“Tell her I will need another thirty minutes,” she replied.

“Then I will refresh the fire pot,” he said. He bent over the low table to add a grain of resin to the flame, and fanned away the initial plume of smoke to spread its perfume. Then he straightened and walked out of the chapel.

***

Thirty-five minutes later Nyota was standing, stretching to wake up her leg muscles. She asked the room controls to turn up the lights. There was an indentation in the cushion on the other side of the table, where Commander Spock had been.

A pity she could not keep that cushion. His words had softened a harsh experience, plumped up a little of her lost hope, and validated her. She wasn’t a person who accumulated many things, but had there been some token or souvenir available, to remind her of his reassurance, she would have taken it.

She leaned over the pot to find its damper so she could extinguish the flame. What she found instead was a thin stylus, with matt black finish, balanced carefully on the rim. When she picked it up, she could feel and see that the surface was embossed with Vulcan calligraphy, one character atop another from the nib to the base. She adjusted it in her hand with the nib pointed down, as if she was about to write with it. From that angle, it was clear what the characters spelled: the name S’chn T’gai.


	5. Tactile Sensation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, wow, wow.  
> To everyone who has left hits, comments and kudos -- I just want you all to know they are a powerful incentive. Hope you enjoy this new chapter.

On this day, four months ago, nobody would sit beside her in class.

Now she was the centre of attention.

She wasn’t troubled by the blue badge handed to her that morning, which had to be pinned to the left shoulder of her uniform jacket. It measured eleven point seven centimetres in diameter, with 55 point black font which read, “Hi! I’m Cadet Uhura. Ask me about Starfleet Academy”.

And people did. By sixteen hundred hours, the visitor count had reached 56,292.  The figures were regularly updated and displayed on two massive screens suspended from the ceiling of the Enterprise Pavillion. This temporary exhibition building had been assembled, interior fitted and decorated, food and promotional material supplied and systems tested in seventy five hours, according to Cadet Sulu. The two of them had prime assignments. The stood right in the middle of the saucer shaped ground floor, alongside the full scale model of a starship bridge.

Earlier in the day, at the 34,018 visitor mark, Uhura asked Sulu, “Does Iowa actually have this many people?”

He laughed. This was his second Recruitment Fair. He admitted this was exactly what he wanted to know the first time.

“Most visitors come from Illinois,” he said, “but Borozan has worked Security here since 2250, and he says some people plan their vacations round Starfleet fairs. He met visitors from Sri Lanka once.”

“They came here?” Nyota said indignantly. “Why not Dar-es-Salaam?”

“Do they build starships at Africa headquarters?”

She shook her head. “Namibia.”

“Let’s see – treeless, flat, dry climate, sparse population … yup, that sounds a lot like Iowa.”

“But there isn’t much else to do there,” she admitted.

“Have you been outside the dockyards yet?” Sulu asked. “There’s not much here either. Big news is the new nightspot out on the highway -- a bar that can hold more than fifty people!”

“My roommate will definitely want to know about that.”

“Want to check it out? There’s a bunch of us going tonight, because Borozan has the robot shuttle. We can fit two more if you don’t mind sitting on the floor.”

“Yes please,” Nyota took out her PADD and stylus. “I’ll message Gaila.”

By seventeen hundred hours, the count on the notice screens had reached 57,344. But the numbers inside were starting to thin, with thirty minutes left until the end of the first day. Nyota adjusted her badge, took the weight off one tired foot at a time, and idly checked the upper levels of the Pavilion. VIP visitors had their own entrances.  They could avoid the crowds that way, and view the fair from several places along a mezzanine promenade. Around lunchtime she had spotted Ensign Tiavro Dre there, and waved to him.

Now there was an older man standing where Tiavro had been. He had captain’s stripes on his tunic, so Nyota guessed it must be Christopher Pike. He was supposed to be here to inspect the new ship under construction.

She waved again, hoping to catch his eye. But another uniformed figure drew up alongside Pike on the balcony rail, and he saw her first.

***

“Spock?”

When Captain Pike turned, he looked his former Science Officer up and down as if there was something incorrect about his clothing.

“Good evening, sir.” Spock replied.  He noted Cadet Uhura down on the exhibition floor, waving. If the gesture was meant for the captain, he did not appear to have noticed. Spock was about to mention this, but she had quickly withdrawn her hand and looked in another direction.

“These fairs aren’t your thing,” Pike said. “Have you been braving the throng down there?”

Spock responded. “The Computer Science department has temporary use of the testing labs in Enterprise dock. We are offering assessment examinations for prospective cadets.”

“Gotcha.”

For one minute, forty-two seconds after this the captain was quiet, and seemed absorbed with observing the activity below. Cadet Uhura was approached by two human women, one older than the other. Presumably they had asked her a question, which required her to check something on her PADD. The stylus she used looked like the one he had taken to the Dean’s office. Did she find his? He had sent a message to the Villa caretakers, and was assured the object could not be located in the chapel, and had not been handed in.

“I just thought,” the captain broke into his thoughts, “you know, that you might have wanted to stick closer to the Farragut, while it’s still in San Francisco.”

Spock knew how to roll his eyes. His mother did it often, and he knew the meanings the expression could convey. He also knew it would not be an appropriate response to a remark from a senior officer, particularly one whose recommendation he was seeking.

“Captain,” he asked instead, “would your comment be an indirect reference to Christine Chapel?”

Pike rolled his own eyes. “Yeah. And I know. You’ve told me before.”

“I hold Doctor Chapel in high regard as a fellow officer and friend.”

The captain held up both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Absolutely.”

“I am also indebted to her. Her actions on board the Farragut probably saved my life.”

“Really Spock, I do --,”

“But she has assured me on several occasions that she regards her actions as nothing more than the performance of her duty as Chief Medical Officer.”

“At ease, Commander,” Pike said, and Spock perceived the finality in his tone of voice. “Chapel has assured me of the same thing, more than once. And before you misjudge me, I haven’t suddenly turned into a soppy romantic who hopes that, in spite those assurances, your relationship has blossomed into something …, well, romantic.”

“That is reassuring,” Spock replied.

“I’m a hard-nosed realist,” the captain went on. “When the Enterprise is finished and ready to launch, I want the best crew on board and I want that crew to stay at their best for the duration of our mission.”

“Understood.”

“So if you’re here to ask me to recommend you for that crew …,” Pike fixed him with a stare.

“I am.”

“Then the hard-nosed realist in me says we have a problem.”

The amplification system sounded two clear tones.  The overhead screens displayed a notice that the exhibition would shortly close for the day. Cadets began to usher lingering visitors away from the various displays. Uhura was still in conversation with the young woman who had approached her earlier. They had each rested a hand on the other’s upper arm, and their interaction was suddenly stopped when they both tipped back their heads and laughed.

Spock remembered laughter. A childhood thing – he could recall the spontaneous electric shock of amusement, and how his body reacted. His face would open itself: eyes widen, nostrils flare and sinuses expand. His mouth would display all his teeth, and sometimes his tongue. He found he produced the same sounds his mother made, without intending to do so. Vulcan training intervened, allowing him to block the physiological response, and later he was taught to analyse the stimulus and question the practicality of humour overall.

In spite that, he would prefer to be on the ground level now, resisting and questioning whatever impulse made Cadet Uhura laugh, instead of standing on the balcony while his former captain came to the point.

“Spock, you were a superlative undergraduate and a superlative Science officer,” Pike assured him. “If I turn down your application to serve on board the Enterprise, it won’t have anything to do with your aptitude, your loyalty, your work ethic or your ability to remain professional with people who don’t grasp the finer points of Vulcan culture.”

“That is also reassuring,” Spock said, though he had compromised on accuracy. It was not entirely reassuring.

“But your biology means you need a partner.”

A logical statement, simply worded.

“The Enterprise should be ready in two years. I expect its first mission to last another five, barring any unforeseen circumstances. That’s seven years altogether.”

Spock made his one, feeble protest. “My biology has proved inconsistent with regard to the interval between … symptoms.”

“Meaning?” Pike demanded.

“It is not certain that I will be ill during the next mission.”

“Equally, you might be ill more than once,” the Captain said. “Inconsistency can work both ways.”

Spock took a moment to retreat into that state of consciousness unique to his birthplace, and deconstruct his reactions. He was frustrated to have his ambition thwarted by a factor he could not control. This was an illogical reaction, since control of all life circumstances was not possible. The more logical course would be to examine the situation in detail and determine which aspects might be altered. Once that was done, he should consider his options along with their probability for success. He could decide short and longer term goals based on those conclusions.

And then he had to put this line of thought on hold, because another reaction was demanding his attention. It would require more of his inner resources. No exact terminology existed to describe it, so far as he knew, in Vulcan or Standard. He could only express it by reviewing the past.

His first _pon farr_ was five years late. His contemporaries experienced their symptoms around age fourteen, a point where formal schooling for all children paused for a year to accommodate it. After the break, it was noticeable how other students wanted to spend more of their free time with their bondmates.

By contrast, he continued in a state of suspended childhood with T’Pring, his betrothed. He experienced sexual arousal in dreams, satisfied by abstractions of the female, a partner whom he could never see above the shoulders, whose name was a mystery. With his bondmate he felt nothing. This situation, coupled with medical tests which cast doubt on the percentage viability of his spermatozoa, meant his father was drawn into negotiations with T’Pring’s parents with a view to dissolve the bond.

And then the fever descended. He was days away from entry examinations for the Science Academy, days away from being unbonded. The delirium rendered most of his memories fragmentary; he was aware of T’Pring’s arrival, of moments during their coitus, but nothing about when she left.

He wished _pon farr_ could erase more. It had allowed him to forget much of their bodily contact. But the melding of their minds remained in stark detail: every expression of her resentment at being chosen for him, her humiliation because she spent the school recess alone, her relief when a date was set for their separation, her excitement about the new bondmate her parents had chosen.

Worse than all this was her disgust. He received that with every skin to skin contact, how cold and sick it made her feel to touch him, to service him. Genital connection intensified the reaction; she would occasionally fail to resist the urge to retch.

“Spock?”

Spock blinked, increased the speed of his brainwaves, returned to the present. “Sir.”

“Are you all right?”

“I was … considering the points you made, Captain.”

“Look,” Pike grasped the balcony rail with both hands, “don’t let this get you down. You have a teaching position with the Academy now, and two years before launch. You’re not unattractive in the eyes of many women, I can tell you that.”

Spock was still hearing the sound of T’Pring choking back her own bile so that she would not spit it in his face.

“All those cadets,” Pike extended a hand over the balcony, indicating all the red uniformed students shutting down the various displays and systems, calling out to each other, making arrangements for their free time.

“I foresee a difficulty,” Spock said “in the event that I am teaching a cadet--,”

“Good old staff/student fraternisation rules,” the Captain talked over his objection. “Put those out of your mind. If you meet someone, however you meet them, and it’s looking good, just tell me. Tell me and I will speak to the Dean's office. I’ve got to have the best crew possible, Spock, and you are the best. The Academy exists to serve Starfleet, not the other way round. Dismissed.”

Spock dipped his head respectfully, “Sir.”

Then he turned away from the balcony. He left the pavilion the same way he entered it, using VIP Exit 3 because it went underground.

Most Starfleet personnel would avoid the dockyard service tunnels when they visited. His roommate once remarked how the stale air and the echo of footsteps felt disturbing, though he would never elaborate. Spock, on the contrary, listened to the rhythm of his steps and the counter rhythm bouncing off the concrete walls, and focused on it. Simple repetitive activity, like the flicker of the flame in a fire pot, reduced distraction and freed up capacity for higher functions.

He let that happen. And stillness returned – his sour memories of T’Pring retreated. He returned to the place his logic had to leave temporarily, and considered what he might do to secure his place aboard the Enterprise.

He would need advice. There were no Vulcan cadets; he would probably need to seek a human partner. He had not studied Earth courtship practices, only observed casually what could be observed in public places. From Doctor Chapel he had learned something of Terran female physiology, but at a time when his ability to retain information was compromised.

If he asked her, Christine would certainly try to help. But he would prefer not to obligate her.  Part of the reason he left the Farragut and sought a teaching position was to demonstrate his intention to give her space. His mother could not be guaranteed to keep his confidence; the strength of a marital bond on Vulcan was measured by the inability of mated pairs to keep secrets from each other. Lieutenant Chalmers, perhaps? He didn’t know if she would take him seriously.

He reached the end of the tunnel, climbed the stairs and came to the surface near the testing labs. These were single storey barracks, dwarfed by the towering scaffolds and service platforms behind them, where the warp coils of the Enterprise were taking shape. Spock reached the cabin door as two men were leaving. He recognised them both as test candidates; they wished him good evening and he replied in kind.

Inside, Cadet Jadillu stood at the workstation he had configured so she could administer and mark the examinations. She glanced up when he entered, and gave him a wide-eyed look he took as a plea for assistance.

Their final test candidate held himself in a curious posture against her console -- half slumped as though afflicted with a disease which attacked the muscles in his legs. His neck extended forward so that his head interfered with Gaila’s ability to view her display, and as he talked his left arm gesticulated in a way which put nearby objects in jeopardy. Spock crossed the room and put himself squarely between this man and his assistant.

“Cadet Jadillu, have you provided Mr. Karlsson with his results?”

“I have, sir.”

Admittedly, this was an interesting phenomenon to observe. The candidate, as soon as he was interrupted by the Commander’s arrival, experienced a shift of consciousness so sudden it made him startle and stutter apologies.

“—uh, sir, sir, sorry I, uh--,”

He heard the Orion giggle before she added, “His overall mark was 87.2%.”

“Considerably above average,” Spock noted. “Mr. Karlsson, thank you for your time. You will receive a response to your application within fourteen days.”

And Karlsson left the building at a pace, without speaking.

Gaila said, “I did not encourage that, I swear.”

The commander stepped away to check his own console for messages.

“Dr. Khauri tells me that his fourth year Xenocultural majors have collaborated with the Biochemistry Department in Tokyo to formulate a liquid compound which should counteract Orion pheromones. He asked if we would be prepared to test a sample.”

“I get to drink it?”

Spock felt – and dealt with – his amusement.

“It has been packaged in an atomiser for direct application to the skin.”

“Oh.”

Then he relented, just a fraction. “I’m afraid you will need to content yourself with the consumption of beverages you already know.”

This was a reference to Gaila’s first days as his teaching assistant, when she decided to make casual conversation by giving her opinion on the flavour and potency of eighty-five Earth cocktails, starting with those containing absinthe and progressing through the Standard alphabet to whiskey.

“Speaking of which, sir,” Gaila tapped in some commands on her console, “Cadet Uhura got us both invited to the bar outside the dockyards tonight. I’ve been checking out their drinks.”

Spock’s hand stopped in mid-air over his console.

“You have not had time to leave the testing labs," he said.

“No need,” the cadet said. “Look at this.”

He came back to her display, which no longer had the examination results. Instead there were live images - six perspectives of the same dimly lit interior, the floor space mainly taken up with small tables and chairs. One view showed a long, polished counter, behind which were accoutrements typical of these Terran dispensaries: stacked glasses, bottles suspended upside down on the walls, more bottles stored in refrigeration units, decanters filled with straws, lemon segments and miniature umbrellas made of tissue paper.

Since he left Vulcan to join Starfleet, Spock had been inside three bars. He did not understand their appeal. At least this one did not look too crowded, but he was sure that would change.

Cadet Jadillu adjusted the view of the counter.  She zoomed in, so that it was possible to read the menu standing on its surface. Spock saw the name on the outside cover -- The Shipyard Bar.

“They do Cardassian Sunrises!” Gaila enthused. “Dahe’el sap is probably imitation, but still.”

“Cadet, have you hacked into the surveillance systems of this establishment?”

She put up her hands. “Not me. The warp drive engineers did it last winter.”

“Why?”

“To see what’s on offer besides drinks.”

He felt amusement again. Cadet Jadillu was a particular challenge to his discipline in this regard.

“The selection is not extensive,” he observed, as he could see no one but the bartender in view.

Gaila giggled.

“Quality Commander, not quantity.” She made adjustments to bring up new camera angles, and zoomed in on a young human male seated by himself at a table. “That is a face I wouldn’t mind seeing when I look over the rim of my Cardassian Sunrises.”

Her comm sounded.

“I’m being summoned,” Gaila said. “Would you mind --,”

Spock replied, “Your shift ended thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds ago.”

Cadet Jadillu walked out of the lab while taking her call. “In dock 7 cabins. Can you … okay.  Okay. Sure, I could meet you there --,”

And then she was out the door. The cabin, being insulated to reduce external construction noise, fell silent.

Spock considered his choices.  He could be alone here, or he could be alone in his temporary accommodation pod near dock 6. The latter was not spacious, nor equipped for more than sleeping and dressing, whereas the lab had a break room with its own replicator.

So he went there, accessed the replicator’s menu to see what refreshment it offered and chose the programme for white tea. He took the cup back to his console and finished reviewing his messages. That activity, including the composition of responses and the delegation of a coding sample evaluation to Gaila, took thirty-six minutes and twelve seconds.

His empty cup needed to be cleaned. He passed Cadet Jadillu’s display on his way back to the break room, and confirmed his earlier supposition. The security images showed the drinking establishment had become very crowded. Many people were standing.  Their bodies swayed or bounced in time to music that was probably loud and thankfully inaudible. The young man Gaila had so admired was leaving his place at the table; all the seats around him had been taken.

Spock watched him in motion. His walk betrayed his level of inebriation – once or twice he swayed but remained upright long enough to reach the bar counter, where he made a space for himself by shouldering his way between the patrons already there. The bartender, a stocky man with a shaved head, said something to the new arrival with an expression which Spock could not interpret. The young man replied, and whatever he said made the bartender smile, albeit briefly. Perhaps Gaila’s choice was what Terrans called ‘a regular’.

Then Spock saw Cadet Uhura appear in the security images. She was crossing the floor rapidly, head high, shoulders back. She stopped to greet a seated group of cadets and smiled. She smiled again at the bartender when she reached his counter, picked up the menu Gaila had zoomed in to read. She placed an order—a lengthy order, it seemed. When she finished she smiled again, set down the menu and waited. Her head and shoulders bobbed rhythmically.

Fascinating, how she could appear so human now, laughing and smiling and dancing, and yet seem so Vulcan a few weeks earlier, at the Dean’s dinner.

The young man Gaila had admired leaned forward and turned his head in Uhura’s direction.

He spoke to her. There was a short exchange which seemed to include the bartender, because gestures were made in his direction. Then came a point where Cadet Uhura shook her head and looked away, while the young man continued to talk.  She stopped responding.

Spock had to deal with his reaction as the young man left his place at the bar and chose a new spot, so close to Uhura’s right shoulder he was impossible to ignore. This common behaviour in human males, to persist when their approach to a female was not accepted, would have been more than insulting on Vulcan. Yet this seemed to happen frequently in bars – another reason he could not understand their appeal.

He wanted her right to reject him upheld. So it relieved him when four Starfleet security officers approached the bar and began to ask questions. Spock felt assured they would deal with the situation, and that he need not watch any longer. It took him a twenty seconds to search for and find the options on Cadet Jadillu’s console which would shut down access to the Shipyard Bar surveillance cameras.

But before he could commence closure, he saw one officer grab Gaila’s young man by the collar and punch him in the jaw. Then the fight started. Spock took his comm from his jacket pocket and dialled the dockyard emergency line.

It was answered immediately. “Commander, what do you need?”

“I have been informed,” he did not say how, “of an altercation involving Starfleet personnel at the Shipyard Bar.”

“Shipyard? Captain Pike is there, sir – we’ll signal him now.”

Spock meant to thank the operator, but he had just seen the young man shove both his hands against Uhura’s breasts. He switched off his comm, took mindful breaths, and watched the fight continue until Captain Pike intervened. Only then did he close the programme.

The break room in the lab had a sterilising unit. But Spock needed some kind of simple routine that gave him time to consider. He dispensed a small amount of surfactant into his tea cup, then added enough hot water from a tap to half fill it. He thought about what he had seen on Gaila’s console while he searched the cupboards for a clean dishcloth. Time on Earth continually reminded him how much he understood about humans and how little. His mother would smile and, if she believed she was not observed, move in time to music. On rare occasions she consumed alcohol. But she would never have tolerated an environment like the Shipyard Bar or such barbarity from a stranger.

He found the dishcloth, unfolded it, and inserted it into the cup to scrub away the tannin stains. Cadet Uhura, given her ability and upbringing, deserved better company. He hoped that she had found his stylus in the chapel and would recognise it as a token of his support, should she ever have need of it. He rinsed the cup in hot water, followed by cold, and then shook off the excess moisture before setting it upside down on the draining board.

The towel hanging from the rail on the break room wall was damp, and probably not hygienic. He took it to the laundry chute and fetched a clean one. As he dried the cup and draining board, he thought of the young man’s hands on Uhura’s breasts and stopped himself, stopped moving altogether.

There had been no logical reason to remember that image. Certainly no reason for his imagination to speculate on the tactile sensation.

He questioned himself, the way he imagined the four security officers must have questioned the young man at the bar. What was he doing? What were his intentions?

Why, exactly, had he left his stylus in the Villa chapel?


	6. Sunbathing

“I cannot do this,” Gaila said at last. She grabbed the neckline of her cami top and flapped it to create the nearest thing to a breeze. “It’s just too hot.”

The way Nyota had described it, the Terran custom of sunbathing seemed perfect. Finally, here was an activity which required maximum exposure of skin, and could be accomplished lying down. Consumption of cold liquids was recommended for rehydration. Naturally Gaila tried, but the sun was too fierce for her in August.  In a different situation, she would not mind being smeared with sweet smelling lotions and getting sweaty. But this was dull.

By contrast, Nyota had hardly moved. Just after lunch they spread two towels over the grass at the bottom of the outdoor space they could access from their study. They shared this garden with the East Axis apartment, which currently had no occupants. That would soon change. The new school year was less than two weeks’ away, and they had already helped four students move into Cluster 19. Nyota said she wanted to catch the sun while they still had privacy in their own back yard.

But Gaila wouldn’t miss sunbathing. The crazy thing was that, for once, she was the person wearing more clothes. Nyota had stripped down to nothing but the bottoms of a borrowed red bikini. The Orion watched her as she lay on her back, with one leg bent at the knee and her delicate fingers spread fanlike over the grass. She looked utterly beautiful. Gaila felt this was a good teaching moment.

“It would be a crying shame,” she proudly used the idiom Nyota taught her that morning, “if breasts like yours got any older without being caressed by lover’s hands.”

Uhura opened one eye, looked at her, and shut it again. “Melodrama queen.”

“Look at me,” Gaila said, “living on a different world, doing things I never did before. If I can get a suntan, why can’t you spend one night in someone else’s bed?”

“Illogical comparison,” Nyota countered. “Do Orions have cultural issues with ultraviolet radiation exposure?”

“I have an issue with it. I’m too hot.”

“Diversion. Do Orions have --,”

“We have cultural issues with boredom, solitude and sexual frustration. Oh, and sobriety.”

“Humans, in the main, have cultural issues with casual sex.”

“Really?” Gaila reached down and tugged Nyota’s ponytail. “I must be meeting some very unconventional humans.”

“Okay, okay. I have an issue with it.”

“So date someone, anyone. Even I have figured out that when Terrans date the same person enough times, the sex is no longer considered casual.”

“You know what this is really about?”

Of course Gaila knew. Nyota was a darling, and very good at helping her Orion roommate learn all those nuances of behaviour that only someone born on Earth could teach. She was less good at receiving help. And whatever Uhura thought she knew, their deal with the Dean was still only half fulfilled. Gaila would need to do the honourable Orion thing, and keep raising the subject until they either had another fight or something changed.

“This is about you wanting to bring your dates back to our apartment,” Nyota said. “You want me to do it so you can do it.”

“Surely the Dean gave us all this privacy,” Gaila indicated the garden and the apartment with one vast sweep of her arm, “for a reason.”

“Gaila, we have been over this, and you know my situation. For the last time, the answer is no.”

Then they both heard the sound of a Starfleet hauler nearby, emitting compressed air as it braked.

“Where is that coming from?” Nyota asked.

Gaila grabbed her PADD and flicked through the views from various Messier surveillance cameras until she found the one that looked down on the hauler. And she gave thanks to the Enterprise warp engineers for providing the inspiration for this little hack (to one in particular, who made up for that disappointing trip to the Shipyard Bar).

“Someone must be moving into 20 Cluster,” she said at last.

“Whoa," Uhura lifted her head off the grass. "That's close.  Okay, quiz question – should I put my bikini top back on?”

The Orion considered. “The incoming tenant would need to be moving into North Axis apartment, because that garden adjoins ours. They would also need to be least six foot tall and walk all the way down to the bottom of their lawn, if they wanted to see over this fence.”

“OK, full marks. Low probability of discovery. But just to be on the safe side, I’ll turn over.”

Gaila held Uhura’s ponytail so it wouldn’t stick to her roommate’s oiled skin as she rolled onto her stomach, and then arranged that black hair across the grass in an attractive swirl.

“Friend duty discharged,” the Orion said. “Permission to take refuge indoors?”

“Permission granted,” Nyota murmured.

***

Spock went ahead of the hauler in a car he borrowed from Bovial Ch’ziaqis, his former academy roommate. He did not have many possessions.  But a few were delicate, and he would not entrust their safe journey to a moving contractor. He took these inside North Axis apartment himself, and left the entrance open for the hauliers to bring in the rest.

Delivery was finished and signed off before fourteen hundred hours, and he was left with a checklist of essential items already in the premises, supplies Starfleet provided for decommissioned officers.

He stood in his sleeping area, which in itself was the largest space he’d ever occupied since he left Vulcan. All his boxes were piled on or beside the bed, which measured two meters by one point eight meters. This piece of furniture, by itself, accomplished one of many small goals he set himself shortly after the Iowa recruitment fair. Messier Cluster 20 was accommodation for couples.

Spock decided to leave unpacking until later. He left the sleeping area, went down the passage and past his front door into the open plan lounge and kitchen. He checked the menu options on his replicator for tea varieties, chose jasmine. He carried the cup across the lounge and through to the study, with its twin console desks. He activated the glass doors between them and stepped outside into the garden.

His mother would have said it needed work. Five square meters of turf bounded on three sides by a timber panelled fence – no other plants, structural features or contours. Yet there was moderate satisfaction in having a personal piece of ground on a day like this, with nine point six hours of sunshine forecast.

***

Gaila put her head through the open glass doors and called out.

“Hello? Are you completely cooked yet?”

Nyota didn’t move or answer.

“I knew it,” the Orion said, “your brains have fried.”

There – Uhura’s shoulders were shaking with laughter.

“If you stay there any longer, we won’t need funeral rites. You’ll be cremated already.”

“Another half hour?” Nyota’s voice was muffled by her towel.

“Well, it’s not my skin cells you’re destroying. But if you make it fifteen minutes, I should have programmed the replicator to produce watermelon sorbet. Or would you prefer lychee?”

“Papaya?”

It was Gaila’s turn to be silent. “Hmm,” she said at last, “I may need another ten minutes.”

“Super.”

***

Spock recognised Cadet Jadillu’s voice, confirming the achievement of his second goal: to facilitate everyday interaction between himself and his assistant’s roommate by physical proximity. Though with regard to those everyday interactions, he had not yet worked out specifics.

He stood in the middle of the garden, surveying the fence. Its height, and the overlapping panels, suggested a boundary that should not be breached. He could easily look over, if he went closer, but would this be impolite?

He stopped to consider his objectives in more detail. If he suspected an action might offend, it would be wiser to refrain, at least until he could check. At the same time, the most effective way to learn what constituted appropriate social interaction between neighbours was to spend more time in this space.

So he returned to the apartment. He found the box which contained his PADD and called up the Starfleet housing regulations: amenities, car parking, drainage, earthquake awareness, emergency services … he had read through these already. Under Exterior Alterations, Landscape he noted that architectural additions such as patios, gazebos or swimming pools were prohibited, as well as any disturbance to the turf nearer than four meters from back of the apartment.

But digging and cultivation were permitted on the last meter of ground which ran along the back fence. And he was allowed different forms of movable outdoor furniture.

Meanwhile, his tea had gone cold. He left the cup on the kitchen counter, reviewed the items on the Starfleet supplies list and opened the cutlery drawer to remove all eight dinner knives.

He would start with something small – just some flowering perennials in a trapezoidal bed extending from the northeast corner. He strode purposefully to that location, knelt down beside the back fence and began to stake out the little plot by pushing the knives into the soil.

That was when he spotted the knothole.

It was fifty-nine centimetres off the ground and ovoid in shape, three point six centimetres at its widest point. From this angle of observation, he could see something white on the other side, where he would have expected to see green. If he went closer …

He could not justify that. Could he?

He felt preparations being made for a very familiar internal battle. Had anyone looked through the knothole into the garden of North Axis apartment, they would have seen just one person kneeling on the lawn. But Spock knew there were two of him, had always been two, forced to live in the same body and not always accepting that fact.

_-You heard Cadet Jadillu speaking outside.-_

_-I did not hear a reply.-_

_-That is not accurate.-_

_-I heard a reply, but was not certain whether it came from the garden.-_

_-Using the imperfection in this panel for visibility may be an invasion of their privacy.-_

_-The garden is quiet now. They may both be inside.-_

_-Whether or not your supposition is correct, your actions should be judged on your intent, which is subterfuge.-_

_-I would just –-_

_-Be specific. What is your will?-_

_-I would just like –-_

_-Like?-_

He could stop the fighting by choosing sides. Both parts of him were concerned with propriety, but one was able to argue, by imagining the reasoning Christopher Pike might employ, that the risk of looking through the knothole could, like any form of intelligence gathering, be outweighed by the possible benefit of information gathered, information which might help him achieve the logical goal of finding a partner.

He crawled nearer to the small opening and leaned forward so he could carefully rest his cheek against the rough timber.

The white he had seen was the surface of a bottle, one which dispensed high factor protection from ultraviolet radiation. The cap had not been correctly replaced, so that a small amount of pale fluid oozed from the opening.

One point two centimetres from the bottle was a human index finger. The finger was connected to a hand, palm facing down. The hand was connected to an arm, the arm to a body.

The next thing Spock registered consciously was that the splinters in the wood panel seemed to be driving themselves into his face. He pulled back. Then he stood, stepped over the line of dinner knives and walked as quickly as he could back to his apartment.

Once inside, he hurried through the study and the lounge and the kitchen.  He marched along the passage to his sleeping area, through his dressing room and finally into the hygiene station. He stopped at the counter over the washbasin, and looked in the mirror.

The tender skin around his eye was a little inflamed, but not scarred. He ran cold water in the basin and splashed some against his face. He held his hands against both sides of his throat and felt his pulse throb.

The sight of her literally took him over, short circuited the hard wired routines of his thinking. The lingering memory was no less effective; Spock stepped back from the counter and the mirror showed him exactly where his brain and blood supply were concentrating their efforts. He undressed, and put himself beneath the spray of a painfully cold shower.

But the mental images were stubborn, and would keep bringing to his attention unrelated but potent details – the teardrop shape of her earring pendant, the sheen and shadow landscape of her naked back, the double bow knot of red cord that rested against her hip and pulled taut when she had shifted, ever so slightly, on her towel ….

After the shower he unpacked his meditation robes and fire pot. He failed to stop himself imagining her lying in the space he cleared by lifting boxes off the bed, and so he took the fire pot into the lounge, and placed it in the middle of the floor. He closed the door to his study, lit the flame and asked the apartment’s computer system to dim the lights.

It took fifty-five minutes of concentration to make any rational consideration of the incident possible. Firstly, he reviewed all his experiences of sexual arousal since the onset of puberty, and concluded that today’s was the strongest and most sustained outside pon farr. This was favourable. It confirmed what he began to suspect in Iowa, that he was attracted to Cadet Uhura. But this particular encounter was too much too soon. What he had seen in the garden belonged to a much later stage in his plans, the realisation of which could not be taken for granted. So the second thing he resolved was to close the knothole.

***

Gaila called her again. “Sorbet is ready!”

Nyota eased herself up on her hands and knees and stretched. Then she sat back down on the grass and used the towel to dry the sweat off her breasts before putting the bikini top back on. She stretched again and yawned, and for some reason this was too much delay for her roommate, who came outside with two dessert bowls.

“Nice colour,” Nyota said as she accepted her portion and a teaspoon. “You got that perfect.”

Gaila didn’t answer. She had dropped to her knees like a dead weight and was scanning the patch of grass where Nyota’s towel had been.

Uhura let her first mouthful melt on her tongue, with her eyes shut to concentrate on the flavour.

“It’s so close … I wish I could say what I mean exactly.”

Gaila still said nothing. Nyota thought she could hear the Orion sniffing.

“Does it smell like papaya too?” she asked, and put her nose over the rim of her dish. All she could smell was cold.

“It does not smell like papaya,” Gaila finally replied.

Though it seemed, to Nyota, that her roommate was answering a question which hadn't actually been asked.

“Don’t like yours?” she asked the Orion later, when she had swallowed the last, refreshing spoonful of her own and opened her eyes.  Gaila's dish was filled with orange water.

“It’s fine,” Gaila said absently.  She stared straight ahead. “Have you heard our new neighbour in 20 Cluster?”

“No,” Nyota said. “Should I have?”

But Gaila resumed her silent treatment, so what was the use of talking?

“I’m going to shower and change,” Uhura announced, and took her dish into the apartment.

***

After she was gone, Gaila put down her sorbet dish and crawled on hands and knees to the nearest fence panel. She poked her finger through the knothole there, and then put her eye over it and peered through. She saw three knife handles sticking out of the lawn on the other side.

Well, she thought, a new species. Or at least, one whose pheromones she had never smelled before, and that list was getting shorter. She wondered how Nyota would react if she found out she had a xeno-admirer. Then she saw the glass doors of North Axis apartment open, and Commander Spock stepped into the garden.

The sight shocked Gaila so much that she was slow to react to the direction he was travelling. Only when he was about to step over the knife handles did she jerk her head away, and followed through with a tumble sideways to put herself beyond the knothole’s field of vision.

Then it was quiet. Gaila sniffed the air but could not detect anything new, only the scent Spock must have left behind earlier. Which was nice, even when it was fading. It reminded her of crumbled leaves from a climbing dazaak on Vondem during the cold season.

The continuing quiet began to make her wonder – was he looking through the hole or not? He must be. She noticed that Nyota had forgotten to pick up her bottle of sun lotion, and it all made sense. He might be waiting, thinking she would return.

Gaila grinned, and hugged herself with excitement. Oh, such a delicious little show Nyota could give the Commander if she wanted! The Orion could picture her coming straight from the shower (with wet hair, she must have wet hair, so that it stuck to any bare skin).  She could wear that slippery Japanese garment she owned (kimono – such a pretty word) with the skinny belt. Then all she would need to do was lie down on her back (right about there) and artfully peel back the fabric ...

She could make him tear that fence down, if she would just stop worrying about T–

Suddenly, there was a sound – the soft swish of Spock’s study doors closing.

Gaila felt a little deflated, but only a little. She picked up her dish of melted sorbet, grabbed the bottle of sun lotion and ran into their apartment. She collided with Nyota in the kitchen.

“Whoa!” Uhura threw up her hands.

Was that the best she could do, Gaila thought? Grey athletic suits were just not seductive.

“Guess who’s in the apartment behind us?”

Nyota shrugged.

“Hint – when classes start, I could submit my lesson preps by lifting them over the fence.”

“Spock?!”

Gaila nodded, grinning. Nyota shrieked.

“What?” The Orion demanded.

“He came outside?”

“Yeah!”

Nyota covered her eyes with her hands. “Thank god he never saw me.”

Gaila just shook her head at the blind human standing in front of her. When Nyota recovered enough to show her face again, her roommate put on a fake smile.

“And you --,” Nyota pointed at Gaila’s cami top and shorts, “that’s all you had on?”

“Ah,” the Orion countered. “I saw him, but he did not see me. Want to know how?”

Nyota forced her to change her clothes first. And then, once they’d checked the security camera app on her PADD, to be sure the garden that backed onto theirs was unoccupied, Gaila was permitted to lead her roommate to the spot where Uhura had been sunbathing. The Orion was about to point triumphantly at the knothole when she noticed something had changed.


	7. Rare and Precious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind, lovely readers: Because I had built up a stockpile of chapters, you have been able to enjoy several new postings per week. But now I have reached a stage where I must create NEW MATERIAL. I work full time, a very hectic full time, so this announcement is to beg for your patience. I will try to have Chapter 8 ready for you by w/ending 13th August.

“What are you doing here?” Hikaru asked.

Uhura had fallen back into one of her old habits.  She had chosen the most remote corner of the dining hall, a spot partly obscured by a granite trough planted with ferns.  But Sulu spotted her.  He approached her table, slid his lunch tray along the tabletop and playfully bumped it against hers.

Nyota made herself seem cheerful.

"Oh, same as you," she said, "just getting calories."  She stirred the rice on her plate with her fork, to make it look less untouched.  She moved her PADD so he could see the display.  “I’ve also accessed the AAT to practice navigation calculations.”

Sulu smiled, pulled out a chair and sat down. “So how’s it going?”

She knew he meant, ‘how are you finding the Academy Automated Tutor as a learning aid?’  And she knew she must try and to stretch her pretend bonhomie a little further.

“Not so good,” she said.

That phrase could describe her new academic year on many levels. She took her PADD back, tapped the screen, glanced at the family sigil on the nib of her stylus and felt that weight of sadness pull on her again. After so many months away, it seemed to have come back refreshed.  She heard Sulu stirring his coffee with a spoon, and talking. She caught the phrase ‘Andorian inflections’, and ‘diphthongs’, so he was discussing language. Language, the subject that was supposed to be her major and her passion.

T’Shin had been drawn to languages because they unlocked so much. People could communicate more than one message using the same words, deceive without telling a lie. The smallest parts of speech could carry the weight of an entire argument, or have the strength to break one. Unless language was learned and mastered, her guardian often said, no other branch of knowledge could be deeply comprehended.

When she missed T’Shin most, Uhura seemed to lose her love and natural gift for the subject. She would fall silent.

“Starfleet to Cadet Uhura,” Sulu said softly. “Do you read me?”

“I’m so sorry,” she let her stylus drop on the table.

“We should go back to the start of our conversation,” he suggested. “When I said, ‘what are you doing here’, I meant what are you doing in the dining hall? I understood you had been assigned to a swanky apartment in the Clusters with a fully equipped kitchen.”

Uhura nodded.

“Plus Starfleet’s newest coding genius to programme your replicator.”

“Yes,” she admitted, and smiled. She couldn’t hate Gaila even when that woman was driving her crazy.

“Oh, and also a nice, quiet study overlooking your own garden – am I right?”

“OK, OK, OK.”

“So what is it?” Sulu asked.

And he was waiting, making eye contact, ready to listen.

Unburdening would be the right thing to do. Telling everything would not. Uhura raked her fork over her food a second time while she grappled for a middle way.  She composed the first sentence before she spoke it, to be certain the words would help her without hurting anyone else.

“I think my roommate has fallen for one of our neighbours.”

Sulu grinned. “Gaila falls for people pretty easily. How long do you think it will last?”

Not the right question, she thought, but Hikaru wasn’t to know that. What mattered more was this: how long did Cadet Uhura NEED it to last?

Where Orion romance was concerned, two months was a long time. It started with that knothole. Gaila had obviously been caught using it to spy on Commander Spock, but even after he blocked it she wasn’t discouraged. She began obsessively checking her security camera app, until she caught Spock in the act of stepping through his study door into his garden. And then she dragged Nyota with her to the back fence to exchange neighbourly greetings, offer him a cup of tea and admire the African violets he had just purchased.

That’s when Nyota knew she would need all the mind control techniques T’Shin had taught.

“Gaila is still in pretty deep,” Uhura confessed to Sulu. “She’s cooking for him.”

“Cooking? Gaila?”

The truth of the matter: three attempts to programme the replicator for plomeek soup, and three failures. This was followed by an emergency, escorted trip by retro tram to the Intergalactic Market in the Marina District, so Nyota could help her buy the ingredients.

“I thought she was just going to, you know, give him the food as a gift.”

“She’s invited him to lunch, right?”

“Repeatedly.”

“Oh man,” Sulu said.

“She insists I should stay, but I’m starting to feel--,”

That was the problem in a nutshell: she was starting to feel. How shocked would T’Shin be, if she knew how her daughter’s emotions were affecting her?

Yet T’Shin was partly responsible. Ambassador Sarek might not accept it, but four generations of the Uhura family had been immersed in Vulcan culture. Nyota might not be Vulcan, but Vulcan was part of her. She could hide it, but only so much. When T’Shin disappeared, it ripped a hole in her psyche, broke an intimate bond.

And then along came Commander Spock, who left his stylus in the Villa meditation chapel. That was no forgetful act, but a recognised gesture. To part with a personal object was an invitation one Vulcan might extend to another, to offer their support with particular matters. Such a privilege could be used -- judiciously.

If Nyota were stupid enough to show her roommate what she had been given, Gaila would think it meant friendship. But Vulcans put friendship on a different level altogether, and they never offered it quickly. To achieve a level of intimacy beyond that required even more time, and strict adherence to cultural protocols. Nyota doubted the Orion had enough patience for this kind of relationship, but did not want to discourage her. Because the sooner Gaila gave up, the sooner it would leave Uhura with very little to keep her from temptation.

Except marriage vows.

“I think this guy might be married,” she told Sulu. “He’s been assigned one of the double bed apartments.”

“Ah,” he nodded sagely, “could get complicated.”

When Nyota was twelve, and starting to notice boys, she asked T’Shin if she could have a Vulcan bondmate. Her guardian put off answering the question, and that made sense now, considering what the Vulcan High Council thought of her experiments.

“I don’t think Orions understand commitment,” she said. “The only thing that matters to Gaila, I think, is whether she finds someone attractive. Her version of morality goes like this – if you want someone physically it’s wrong to deny yourself. And if you stop desiring one person and start desiring someone else, it is important to move on, and not let anything stop you, like promises or your former partner’s feelings.”

Somewhere during that little speech she felt Sulu disconnect. It was like seeing an actor impersonate her on one of her bad days, with that lack of eye contact, dislocated lip line, loss of interest in his food.

“Hikaru?”

He looked at her, then looked away. “Go on.”

“No, you go on,” she dared him.

“It’s not important.”

“You should check your face before you use that line.”

Sulu tried to laugh. It was a brave effort, but the sound was mawkish. The corners of his mouth couldn’t stand the strain of smiling.

“Yeah, okay. Borozan and I broke up.”

“What? When?”

Hikaru shut his eyes. “Yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. And I’ve been blabbing about Gaila like it’s so serious.”

“It is serious. You two are friends.”

“I’ll probably have her back by Christmas.”

When Sulu looked at her again his eyes shone. “Didn’t think it would bother me, until you mentioned moving on.”

“Borozan found someone else?”

“One of the recruits I invited to the Shipyard Bar.”

“I don’t believe you listened to me all this time, and didn't say.”

“Hey, I made a straight line for this table when I spotted you. I figured anything happening in your life would be a pleasant distraction.”

Speaking of distraction – right on cue, Nyota got a notification on her PADD. It was Gaila. Her message started with expressions of disappointment, because her roommate had not come home for lunch.  It was followed by a familiar apology.

“Here,” Nyota showed Sulu the text, “this is how I know it’s serious.  That's the third time this week she’s told me not to wait up for her in the evening, because she’ll be ‘working late’.”

Sulu shook his head. “Definitely a cover. Gaila works smart, but not hard.”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” he said, “what a pair we are. I guess we can either get more miserable or find another way to distract ourselves.”

“Suggestions?”

“Well, you need to work on navigation. Commander Spock holds open labs in Computer Science every Wednesday evening, and I always book a simulator console. Maybe we should work through some exercises tonight.”

Of course, Nyota could not correct him, or suggest he contact the lab to check whether Commander Spock had unexpectedly changed his schedule. It didn’t matter. They could always take her PADD to Soma, get one of those upholstered booths near the windows and buy Sulu whatever he considered comforting from their high caffeine/high sugar menu.

***

She arrived at the Computer Science building first, and went directly to the third floor. Lights were on in the lab, but when she looked through the half silicate entrance there were only empty seats in front of the twelve simulator consoles. It confirmed her earlier suspicions.

But the door was open, so she went inside and fitted her satchel into the holder designed for it at the side of the desk. She pulled out the chair, pulled out her PADD and switched the keyboard to Andorian characters. In exchange for navigation lessons, Sulu asked for a sample text he could translate for his required language module.

She had written one paragraph describing Gaila’s efforts to make soup when the lab door opened again.

“Cadet Uhura.”

This time, Nyota managed not to let that penetrating voice unsettle her.  But she did grip her stylus harder. She put her PADD screen to sleep before turning to face Commander Spock.

“Good evening, sir. I didn’t realise you were here.”

Those eyes … perhaps he gave all his students the same kind of focus.

“I believe this is your first visit to the third floor lab since I took responsibility,” he said. “Are you familiar with the simulators?”

“Not really. I’m taking level one with Professor Abdulov, and she usually has these set up for us.”

“Understandable,” he replied.

Spock crossed the room quickly, and stopped beside her so his hip was level with her head. She realised her grip on the stylus was so fierce that the writing end was stabbing the first palmar crease on her right hand, just below her smallest finger.  Nyota carefully loosened her hold, turned the stylus round and slotted it into the designated pocket in her satchel. She sat back and rubbed the sore spot on her hand.

“I can configure the console for you,” Spock went on. “Is there a particular exercise you need to complete?”

“Yes,” she said, and it surprised her how breathless she sounded. So she cleared her throat. “Our textbook, chapter two, scenarios three, four and five.”

He bent forward to reach the console display. Without moving, she could view his head in profile, and consider his right ear. There was an unusual roundness to the upper slope of the helix; it came to a point rather late. Whereas T’Shin and Ambassador Sarek had ears which had slanted up directly, pointing towards the tops of their heads, Spock’s appeared slightly tilted.

This study occupied her attention until he had scenario three loaded. By that point she felt overwhelmed by his proximity. She needed a break.

“Cadet Sulu should be here soon,” she said. “He promised to talk me through these in exchange for some help with his Andorian, and possibly a slice of Soma’s infamous chocolate cake.”

Spock’s first response was a slow blink. Then he added, “I expect he will have a proficient language tutor.” He stood straight, and there was another short silence that Nyota did and did not want to finish. The Commander broke it by telling her he would be available in his office if she or Sulu needed anything else.

“I will also be preparing tea for myself,” he said, “a variety of whole Gyokuro leaves Dr. Khauri procured from Japan. May I offer you a cup?”

Nyota knew the product in question. Dr. Khauri loved to talk about his favourite teas. Gyukuro was still grown in soil on volcanic slopes, and the amount a person could hold in the palm of one hand cost more than three times her monthly cadet subsistence allowance. It would be no casual offer, this drink, no matter who made it. It outclassed all Gaila’s attempts at hospitality, and yet Gaila would not benefit from it.

“Thank you,” she said, “I would like that.”

For that matter, Gaila did not seem to be benefiting in any way for her efforts. As Spock left the lab, Nyota was free to wonder what her roommate really got up to when she was ‘working late’.

***

Before doing anything related to the preparation of tea, Spock chose one of the chairs round the table in the third floor staff kitchen and sat down.

Interesting, in the context of this unexpected meeting, that Cadet Uhura should mention chocolate. His mother always kept some in their home for her own consumption. Given its effect on Vulcans, she was careful to lock it away. But following the disaster of his first pon farr, she did urge him to share a small amount with her one evening, in his father’s absence. He remembered how it felt, that he did not lose control as much as his reflexive instinct to impose it. He felt freer, even lighter, as if his brain were filled with fewer matters of concern. He knew his speech increased in speed and volume the more he ate, and he wept without caring.

This unexpected encounter with Cadet Uhura had comparable qualities. A number of his reactions had happened with less than his usual attention to Vulcan proprieties. He had moved too quickly across the lab to her console, stood too close beside her. Offering to share his tea happened with no premeditation or misgivings, though as soon as the words were out he began to list the logical objections to his decision.

1\. The tea was very expensive.  In most cultures, significant gifts were matched by some significant intent on the part of the giver. At this early stage in their acquaintance, an expression of any strong intent was presumptuous.  
2\. If Cadet Sulu arrived, and was not offered tea, it would make Spock’s intentions even more suspect.  
3\. If the two cadets were romantically involved, his offer might be interpreted as a territorial infringement.

The third point was unlikely. Cadet Jadillu had assured him that she had never perceived an attraction between Uhura and anyone else at the Academy. He felt free to ask, since Gaila had decided to start the new academic year with a very frank conversation.

“Permission to speak freely, sir.”

They had been hammering out the new syllabus for Advanced Systems Analysis, so he assumed she wanted to say more about that.

“Permission granted.”

“I’ve been taught that Vulcans value privacy in certain matters,” Gaila began, “but also that they value honesty.”

“Both assertions are correct.”

“Are there ever times when the need to be honest matters more than the need to keep things private?”

“Yes.”

“I believe you and I may be in a situation like that now.”

Admittedly, he did think of the knothole, and prepared himself.

“Please elaborate.”

“As you know, Orions can smell the sex hormones emitted by most humanoids. Vulcans are one exception, or at least I thought they were. But sir, on a few occasions I have picked up your scent – when we came to say hello not long after you moved in to North Axis --,”

“You are certain this scent belonged to me?”

“Sir, only three of us were present. I know my own smell.”

“Could it perhaps be Cadet Uhura’s?”

“Uhura produces a different scent. The thing is, sir, you have both been producing pheromones whenever you are in each other’s company.”

This was a welcome revelation. Spock remembered the rush of emotion he had to manage, being much like the steam which came from the spout of the kettle now, as it reached boiling temperature. He switched it off and poured hot water on the Gyukuro leaves in the teapot.

As a result of their conversation, he decided to request Gaila’s help to cultivate this mutual attraction. She put the same energy into those efforts as she put into her paid employment, but with less impressive results. Cadet Uhura’s response to the weekly lunch invitations Gaila extended to her employer made no sense. Instead of producing more pheromones when he visited, she produced less.

“She’s suppressing them,” Gaila insisted. “Could her Vulcan guardian teach her to do that?”

Spock allowed it might be possible. “Does she have any reason to control her response?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” Gaila said.

Spock began to suspect the Orion’s presence might be the problem. So he was eager to use this unexpected opportunity to make his own assessment of Cadet Uhura’s feelings. But how to work around Cadet Sulu?

It turned out there was no need. When Spock returned to the lab with both cups of tea, Uhura was still alone.

***

“Your tutor has not arrived.”

Nyota had sent Sulu one text and two voice messages.

“I don’t know why,” she told the Commander. “We agreed half past six, and synced the calendars on our PADDs.”

“It would be unfortunate for you to lose valuable lab time. I would be willing to assist you with the navigation scenarios.”

Those eyes … this time she got the crazy idea that he was using that gaze to penetrate her, understand what she really wanted. Or perhaps that was what she wanted. Suddenly she wished Gaila would appear. Control had been easier in a group of three.

“I would like that. Thank you.”

He set down their tea first, filling the air with a steamy scent like warm cut grass. She watched how his hand released the cup handle and opened with fingers extended. Her own hands felt strange. She seemed to have become so aware of her own body that she could perceive the outer valance electrons from the surface of her skin dancing up and down.

He fetched a chair from the adjacent console and moved it. When he sat down beside her their upper legs lay parallel with no more than the depth of a PADD between them. Nyota knew this was not the Vulcan norm for personal space. She also knew her breathing had changed.

Spock’s voice, if anything, seemed stronger. “I will need to establish which principles you already understand. Describe the Y axis according to the galactic coordinates system.”

“Ah,” she steered though a mire of thoughts. “The axis is generally calculated as a line from Sol to the centre of the Milky Way.”

“Name the four pre-requisite calculations.”

“The change to the position of Sol since last calculation, the position of Earth relative to Sol at the time of departure, the time of day and the degrees in latitude and longitude of the departing Earth vessel.”

“The constellation intersected by the Y axis.”

“Sagittarius.”

“Correct.”

“Do Vulcans have horoscopes?” she asked.

Immediately she heard T’Shin, the voice in her head, loud and clear. _-This is a highly illogical enquiry—_

 _-You don’t need to tell me-_ , Nyota thought in her frustrated defence. _-You need to prevent me behaving like an infatuated teenager in the first place-_.

“Sir,” she apologised, “I’d like to retract that question.”

“As you wish,” he replied.

He paused to sip his tea, then said quietly. “Obviously, the stars visible from Vulcan differ from Earth. Archaeological investigations in the Kurat mountains have uncovered artefacts which suggest there were names for particular stellar groupings which appeared overhead during the course of Vulcan’s orbit round its sun. Whether any significance, logical or otherwise, was attributed to these groups, we do not yet know.”

He put down his cup and continued as if nothing unusual had been said. “Which pre-requisite should be calculated last?”

“The time of – no, hold on,” Nyota thought it through, “the change to the position of Sol, because that sets the Y axis.”

“Correct.”

She sighed. “I’m sorry. This must be an incredible lowering of your standards. You’ve got high calibre mathematical minds like Gaila and Cadet Sulu, but right now you are stuck with someone who stumbles around with the basics.”

***

“Cadet Uhura."

He was experiencing a peculiar internal sensation like warm inflammation, just below his ribcage.

“Every year for the last decade Starfleet Academy has been oversubscribed with applicants for computer science and mathematics places, by an average of thirty point two percent. We therefore accept a high number of cadets with superlative ability in those areas. By contrast, there is a consistent undersubscription where xeno-linguistic and xeno-cultural applicants are concerned. Yet Starfleet maintains an equally high standard for their acceptance. What conclusion can you deduce from these facts?”

“That I am … rare?”

“Rare,” he confirmed.

Her comprehension dawned by way of a beautiful smile. After that she made no more apologies for her ability, or the time it took her to calculate her first set of coordinates. She accepted his guidance, letting his arm arc over hers and point to the correct function keys on the console. Their hands, naturally, did not touch. They were both too well brought up. But at certain moments they came close enough for Spock to draw a limited psi impression, that the greater percentage of her emotional responses were positive.

An hour and seven minutes into this highly satisfactory situation, Cadet Sulu entered the lab.

“Commander, Uhura,” he addressed them solemnly, “I owe you both an apology.”

Cadet Uhura lost concentration in the moment she turned to see who it was, and her hand inadvertently left the console. She turned again to check where it was moving, but not before it made the lightest contact, the knuckle of her right index finger grazing the underside of Spock’s left wrist.

She dropped her eyes in embarrassment, but it was too late. What she gave him was a gift more precious than a few tea leaves, however they were cultivated. There was no mistaking how much she regretted the arrival of Sulu.


	8. Process of Cultivation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, patient Readers. Managed to finish this a day earlier than I expected. Please enjoy.

Nyota knew she was sinking -- sinking and flying at the same time.

And Sulu could tell. Couldn’t he? He made his excuses, sure, but not just because he was late, or because his eyes were still red from an unexpected confrontation with Borozan, and an unexpected reconciliation.

“You’re in good hands, Uhura,” he said, with a nod to Commander Spock. “I need to get my head back to normal. Take a walk or something. My concentration is destroyed.”

“Sure,” she said. But when he was gone, she turned back to face the console and sighed. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

Spock simply reached across her to reset the simulator for the next exercise. He asked her two questions, which she answered. He corrected her second response. She laid out a course for Vulcan from Starfleet spacedock 187 and onward to Starbase 235, calculating the travel time based on three different warp speeds. It took her twenty-four minutes, but she did not make a mistake.

That was sinking – how quickly and easily she fell back into their comfortable bubble of concentration. Inside it, a little piece of her past was reconstructed: this could be one of many evenings at home in Dar es Salaam, when Uhura’s schoolwork was augmented by one to one tutorials with a Vulcan.

“You have completed your assignment, Cadet.”

“We --,” she began, then changed her mind. “Thank you.”

Spock took their cups out of the lab while Uhura shut down the simulator. Once that was finished she stood up, breathed. Her head felt light – that was flying. She carefully lifted her satchel onto her empty chair, checked her PADD to see if Gaila got her message. If the Orion wanted a game of deception, then two could play. Nyota smiled at the receipt confirmation on the screen. Her roommate would believe she was spending the evening at Soma Coffee House, giving Sulu a shoulder to cry on.

It made what she was actually doing seem somehow illicit.

The Commander returned. “I will be walking back to my apartment,” he said. “May I accompany you to Messier 18 Cluster?”

They stepped outside into darkness. The October wind enjoyed making mischief with Uhura’s ponytail, whipping it in all directions. She had to grab the hair and hang on. The walkways were wet, but not getting wetter; the air smelled of clouds that had more rain in them. Spock wore a black greatcoat with the collar turned up, a thick scarf and his hands buried deep in his pockets. Nyota watched his shoulders hunch, and sympathised.

“T’Shin told me she chose most of the locations for her human psi experiments based on their average mean temperatures.”

“A pragmatic consideration,” Spock said. “The purchase of warm clothing consumed a considerable portion of my first year cadet allowance.”

“But she chose Dar es Salaam for herself, because she wanted to be near the ocean.”

She asked the Commander if it was true that most Vulcans disliked water. He considered, said this misconception probably had more to do with a Vulcan’s reluctance to be cold, rather than any objection to being wet. She agreed, told him T’Shin would regularly take her to the beach, but only in December and January when the days were hottest.

As they crossed Argelius Square, passing the Xenocultural buildings, Spock began to speak in high Vulcan. He wanted to know how many languages she had learned before she came to the Academy, and she listed twelve: Arabic, Spanish and Hindi, three spoken and two unspoken Vulcan dialects, Rhiannsu, high Orion, Andorii and Klingon. He told her that Cadet Jadillu had taught him a number of Orion phrases, but nothing he might use in any conversation he was likely to hold with her or anyone else.

Flying – the shift to Vulcan made Uhura feel promoted to a more exclusive interaction, and hearing wit expressed in the language of logic nearly made her laugh. Her head tipped back but she caught herself before she made a sound. She cleared her throat instead, and glanced at the Commander to see if he noticed her slip.

If he had, he was keeping that knowledge to himself.

“Gaila says she learned Federation Standard from films and Terrabeat songs,” she dodged a puddle as she spoke. “I try to create vocabulary lists for her, and we make up new lyrics for old songs, as a learning aid.”

“Cadet Jadillu has never expressed an interest in music,” he replied.

“She only likes it if she can dance to it. I’ve tried to play some of the tracks on my PADD, mostly V’Lirren and post contact jazz. She threatened to delete the files permanently.”

“You enjoy V’Lirren?”

They turned left onto Hubble Boulevard, exchanging their respective opinions about other Vulcan Li-Fal composers. Spock wanted to know if she had listened to any Vo’ektaya pieces.

“Only one or two,” Uhura admitted, “which must make me seem ridiculously old fashioned. But in my defence, T’Shin was nearly two hundred years old when --,”

Sinking. The weight of sadness from earlier in the day caught her off guard with a rare, clear image of Shauri’s face. Uhura stuck, and couldn’t think how to go on.

“Cadet?”

“I apologise, sir.”

“I do not see that an apology is necessary. Would you prefer a change of subject?”

“Thank you.”

He told her he had recently finished reading the latest novel by Anna Muhando, and believed it deserved the critical acclaim it had received. His synopsis gave her the chance to be passive, just listening, until they reached the bottom of Messier Way. In return, she recommended Kenji Soga and Ikos Th'rhonnos if he could find either of the Andorian poets in translation. She recited a Th’rhonnos poem, a good strident verse to go with the wind and the atomised drizzle that had started to collect on their faces and clothes. It turned out he knew some Andorii, from his former Academy roommate.  With her help he began to decipher the meaning line by line.

They had not quite finished the second stanza before they reached the foyer entrance to Messier 18 Cluster.

“I should have chosen a shorter poem,” Uhura said.

“Had I anticipated how much might be gained from having company during the walk home, I would have taken a less direct route,” the Commander replied.

They stopped and faced each other. His eyelashes were wet, and there was a rivulet of water running down the bridge of his nose. The impulse to smile fought with her, never quite winning or losing. She must have presented a half dozen attempts at facial expression in the space of a few seconds.

Sinking.

“I …,” she looked down at her boots a moment. It disconnected her from his dark brows and the deep-set brown eyes that seemed to be asking for more. “Would you like me to send you the remaining translation?”

“I would be grateful,” he said.

She could not keep averting her eyes and be polite. She raised her head, and was immediately drawn to the rain droplet now suspended from the tip of Spock’s nose. It made her thirsty.

“Also,” he said, “may I trouble you to take a message to Cadet Jadillu? I have agreed to assist Professor Tsering with a third year subspace workshop tomorrow, which will delay the start of my office hours until fourteen hundred forty at the earliest.”

"Sir, I'll certainly tell her if I see her. But I don’t expect to find her in the apartment.”

Spock raised one eyebrow.

“She told me she would be in the Computer Science lab this evening. I think she may be using her job as a cover for absences that have nothing to do with work.”

“In that case,” the Commander replied, “I will send a written message.”

That left them with nothing else to do but look at each other. The rain developed its repertoire as they stood under it; the mist becoming heavier until it fell in drops that Uhura could feel when they landed on her head.

“You should go inside,” Spock said at last, “rather than get increasingly wet.”

“You also,” she replied. “You are running the risk of contracting another Terran virus.”

“Indeed.”

Another pause. Neither of them moved.

“How long will it take you to walk to Messier 20?”

“Three minutes and eight seconds.”

“If our back fence had a gate,” Uhura mused, “it would cut down your journey time.”

“That would seem an imposition.”

“Not at all.”

The water droplet fell from Spock’s nose.  It swept down his philtral ridge to the perfect cupid’s bow along his top lip. Uhura’s eyes followed the progress of that trace of water, fixed on its final resting place until she realised just how far she had sunk. When she corrected her gaze, she caught him doing the same. She watched him swallow and take a step back.

“Good night, Cadet.” He raised one hand in Vulcan salute.

She returned it. “Good night sir.”

Flying. Inside the foyer she actually felt dizzy, and steadied herself with a hand on the entrance doors.

She closed her eyes, and the whole evening replayed itself in her mind’s eye. It was an altered interpretation, a little surreal. Spock was the only thing in focus and in colour, and all his hand movements were enhanced by a warm aura. The rain didn’t fall in this recollection>  Yet, when they stopped outside Messier 18 his mouth was still wet.  Before they said good bye, she had stretched out her own haloed hand to run her finger along the soft pillow of his lower lip.

The voice of T’Shin did not intervene to caution her about this fantasy. But she was afraid, nonetheless.

So she forced open her eyes, made herself count to ten in all her studied languages. And she told herself, in her own voice with her own authority, to contain the memory of this evening in all its forms and prepare to quarantine it permanently.

“And,” she added this ultimatum, “never put yourself in that situation again.”

***

Gaila got caught. She heard the apartment door open, but could only do so much so quickly. There was no time to dress. She tried sprinting from the study to the kitchen, in the vain hope she might make it to the laundry chute before she was confronted.

Oh well, she thought, as she slammed on her brakes to avoid a collision with her roommate.  This was going to happen sooner or later.

And then she thought -- whew!

And she had to fan herself with one hand, the smell was THAT strong.

“Gaila,” Nyota was pointing at her folded arms, “you are holding what looks like a male cadet’s uniform trousers and boxer shorts.”

“Cutie Bootie,” Gaila replied, coughing, “given how much you stink, I’m surprised you haven’t got a certain someone’s clothes to wash. Or did you just undress him in your mind?”

Stalemate.

Nyota glared at her, and Gaila glared right back.

“You lied to me about working late,” Uhura said eventually.

Gaila laughed.

“And you want me to believe you produced that much sexy perfume because you hung around with Hikaru Sulu all evening? That would be a waste of good hormones.”

They had a second standoff. But Nyota was wavering. You could see it in her face.

“Do I really smell?” she asked.

“Like a pheromone factory,” Gaila said.

“Oh god.”

For some reason, Nyota pinched her own nose and turned away. Gaila listened to her run down the passage to their bedroom. This was turning out to be easier than she thought it might be. She put the trousers and boxer shorts in the laundry, chose the quickest cleaning routine, checked her hair in the reflective surface of their refrigeration unit. Then she walked back into the study.

“Jim!” she whispered. “Where are you?”

Jim Kirk’s blond haired, blue eyed face appeared from behind her study console. “I’m not leaving like this.”

“You’ve got five minutes. I’ll keep my roommate tied up in the bedroom --,”

“Literally?”

“Of course not. Am I the only person here who knows Standard idioms? You can get your clothes when the laundry routine finishes. I’ll take the security locks off all the exits, and you should get out just fine.”

“Not our best date, Gaila.”

“I promise I’ll talk to my roommate again. She’s just a little … repressed. Gotta go.”

***

Spock extended the usual route he took when walking between Messier 18 and 20. He turned the wrong way on Omega, the road that looped through the Clusters, adding a mile to his journey. He walked with coat and scarf removed, in rain that became heavy enough to sting as the wind lashed it against him. By the time he reached his apartment door he was soaked and shivering.

The cold was enough to discourage an erection, but no help whatsoever where the psychological effects of arousal were concerned. He felt unhinged. He wandered from room to room in the apartment for several minutes (he failed to note how many), unable to decide on any activity except becoming less cold. He asked the replicator to produce a cup of tea, but left it sitting in the machine’s dispenser.

It was twenty two hundred twenty-nine hours before he finally managed to stop in his dressing area and work out a way to hang up his coat so it could drip dry, and change out of his uniform. He put on meditation robes. Then he went back to the lounge. He circled his furniture there, the sofas and coffee table and the chair he often chose for reading or playing the _ka’athyra_. He knew he wanted to be there, but seemed to have lost connection with his precise intention.

At twenty two hundred forty hours he remembered the fire pot.

He went back to the bedroom, fetched it, and set it down on the coffee table. As he settled himself on the floor, a surge of resentment found a gap in his mental control. He took time to trace it back to its source, which was not difficult with such a vocal emotion.

How long, it demanded to know, would his only remedy for sexual desire be various ways of inducing hypothermia, followed by meditation? Was no consideration to be given for self-stimulation? He had never been told by any Vulcan that such activity was prohibited, though in all likelihood other Vulcans had no need for it, because they were bonded. And his emotions came forward with a strong case in favour. Meditation, they argued, was less effective, because it left his underlying biological need unsatisfied. The securing of a partner was not yet certain, and where human courtship was concerned, he knew that some time needed to pass before physical intimacy could be requested. He did not know how much.

These assertions were convincing. Spock acknowledged that a few minutes in the shower would both warm him and efficiently restore his equilibrium. His lok, in reaction to the decision, began to swell again. He stood and was about to take himself into the hygiene station when he heard a noise he recognised, coming from the study. Starfleet Communication Authority was hailing him through his console.

He walked stiffly into the other room, and when he stopped in front of the console display he checked the front of his robes before acknowledging the hail. A communications officer appeared on the video display, and told him they were receiving a transmission from his mother. Could they patch it through to his quarters?

Spock would look odd if he took more than a few seconds to respond. His body, in expectation of imminent sexual release, was interfering with his thinking anyway, so he was unlikely to give the communications officer a convincing reason for refusing the connection.

And his mother had given him a promise. She would not call him casually, just to satisfy her human desire for social interaction. She respected her son’s need for privacy. If she initiated a transmission, there would be an important reason.

He gave his permission for the patch.

Amanda Grayson appeared on screen, and smiled. The two of them exchanged conventional greetings and enquiries about each other’s health. Once these opening courtesies were accomplished, the next part of their conversation would be less straightforward.

Most of his mother’s calls had been attempts to warn him about his father’s latest plan to convince Spock to resign from Starfleet. If she simply told him what was happening, she would not have the ability (or the will) to deny her husband psi access to the memory. So she and her son had to improvise, and devise some discussion about mundane subjects which contained a subtext, without being able to agree any terms of reference ahead of time.

“I read your last message,” Amanda said. “Have you decided to do anything with your garden?”

His last message had not mentioned the garden. That was old news, passed on several weeks ago. ‘Garden’, therefore, was her code word, and he had to think back over their written correspondence to find the key to her real meaning.

In early September, she had initiated an unexpected discussion about pre-Surak love poetry. Specifically, she had compared the works of Sek and T’ko to verses from a Levantine Terran document of disputed date and authorship.  From the latter she quoted a sample passage.

 _‘A garden locked is my sister, my bride, a spring locked, a fountain sealed.’_  
_‘Your shoots are an orchard of pomegranates with all choicest fruits,’_  
_‘henna with nard, nard and saffron, calamus and cinnamon,’_  
_‘with all trees of frankincense, myrrh and aloes, with all choice spices.’—_

She had pointed out how the two Vulcan poets also compared their lovers to gardens, because a garden was a thing of beauty, and also an oasis in an otherwise harsh environment, a place of rest and refreshment.

So she could be asking if he was trying to find a partner on Earth. She would not normally pry. He began to wonder what news she had.

“I am … in the process of cultivation,” he told her.

“How satisfying,” Amanda said. “Have you chosen a local species?”

“Saintpaulias ionantha,” he replied, “an angiosperm indigenous to eastern Africa.”

She nodded. “Do you think it might also thrive in a Vulcan climate?”

“I believe it is well adapted in many respects.”

His mother gave him a smile with downcast eyes, as if she were enjoying her own thoughts. He believed she had decoded his responses to her questions: yes, I am pursuing a relationship with a Terran woman from Africa and yes, she was comfortable in the company of a Vulcan.

“I wish I could visit and see,” she went on. “When your father comes to Starfleet Headquarters in November, you must show him.”

Now her eyes met his and her expression was sombre. Spock had a suspicion.

“You think he has become interested in gardening?”

“Well,” she said, “he is a diplomat, and often brings gifts. I have told him about the undeveloped space that came with your new quarters, and he may wish to bring a suitable Vulcan flower for you.” She paused. “Also some seeds.”

He had hoped his suspicions would be incorrect. But Sarek had said that he could arrange to bring Savid’s widow Lelar to the Vulcan Embassy in San Francisco, if that would help negotiate a bonding for his son. Spock had not taken the proposal seriously. But now his mother was making reference to a Vulcan flower and seeds, and what else could that mean if not Lelar and her children?

He asked Amanda to send him the exact date of his father’s arrival, and the shuttle number as soon as she knew it. They talked a little longer about her garden in Shi’Khar, a conversation without ulterior motive that actually concerned landscaping. Then she wished him good night, and ended the transmission.

As he went back to the lounge, he made a cynical observation that the most powerful damper for his libido appeared to be the receipt of bad news. His body was no longer interested in a shower. Quite the opposite -- he felt unusually fatigued.


	9. Terran Virus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cherished readers - thank you so much for the 1001 hits to the website. Why are such these small gestures so encouraging? I don't know, but they are. Hope you enjoy this chapter -- working on another for next week.

Breakfast had never been so quiet in South Axis apartment, Messier 18 Cluster.

Nyota would not eat in the same room as Gaila; she had taken her bowl of uji into the study. Gaila sat on a stool in the middle of the kitchen, wearing her favourite bra and uniform skirt, feeding herself from a bag of mini marshmallows and considering their situation.

Nyota wouldn’t speak to Gaila because Gaila wouldn’t identify the man who managed to leave the apartment undetected, along with his freshly laundered clothes. Gaila wouldn’t speak to Nyota because Nyota wouldn’t say what caused her to produce extra pungent hormones while she and Commander Spock were alone in the third floor Computer Science lab.

As far as Gaila was concerned, she was only following instructions. The first time the Orion caught sight of Jim Kirk’s beautiful self in cadet uniform and expressed her delight, Nyota’s exact words were these: “If you ever have as much as a moment’s contact with that arrogant, slimy piece of --,”

Then she seemed unable to come up with the final word in her sentence, which was not like C.B.

“Just keep it to yourself,” her roommate finally said. “I do NOT want to know.”

And as for pheromones, any self-respecting Orion would consider Nyota’s attraction to Spock to be as good as a spoken order to help make the fireworks happen. Gaila had worked extremely hard to bring together two halves of a tricky couple. She only wanted the reward that was due to her – every gorgeous, steamy detail of the successful connection.

The bag of mini marshmallows ran out before she wanted to stop eating them. They were something she had not tried to replicate yet, and she was weighing up whether to attempt this or just fill up on caramel popcorn, which she’d programmed over the weekend. Then she heard the faint signal from her PADD, and bit her lip. She’d left it in the study.

She received a glare from Nyota when she entered the room. To remind her of the people on her contact list, Gaila set up different PADD sounds for their incoming communications, funny sound effects or snatches of music.  At that moment, her PADD was playing the chorus from last year’s hit grind single ‘Meld With Me’, a distinctly Orion interpretation of how Vulcans ‘do it’ that sold several billion downloads over most of the Federation markets. Uhura hated it.

So Gaila grabbed the device and took it back with her into the lounge. She opened the voice channel and said, “Good morning, Commander.”

There was no reply. She checked the PADD display, even though she knew it was Spock calling.

“Hello, sir. Hello?”

Wait. There was sound. Seemed like some kind of interference.

“We may have a poor connection, Commander. I can’t hear you. I’ll disconnect and try again.”

But when she sent her own hail, and was put through, nothing had changed.

“Sir? Are you there?”

Maybe they were picking up another hailing frequency, someone with strange, wheezy –

“Sir?”

Then, all of a sudden, the PADD left her hand.

Nyota had come up behind her, snatched the device, and now stood with the tiny amplifier pressed to her ear. She listened with a squint of concentration for several seconds, and then said something in Vulcan. Impossible to guess what, since Gaila felt the language always sounded like it was spoken by androids.

Uhura listened a little more, spoke a little more. She said ‘good-bye’ in Standard, disconnected the call, returned Gaila’s PADD to its opening display and gave it back to her. Gaila wasn’t sure whether they were on speaking terms yet, so she used one hand to mime the drawing of a big question mark in the air.

“He’s not well,” Nyota replied. And she walked back to the study.

Gaila put her PADD on the coffee table and went after her.

“What do you mean, ‘not well’? How not well? How did you even hear anything?”

Nyota picked up her empty porridge bowl from her desk. “Not easy. He’s got laryngitis.”

“Lary-what?”

“An inflammation of the throat.”

“What?”

Gaila tailed after her roommate as she turned round again and coolly took her dishes to the kitchen.  She watched, amazed, as Nyota put her bowl and spoon carefully into the steriliser, and opened the detergent reservoir to see if it needed to be refilled.

“Can he breathe?” the Orion asked.  But Nyota merely yawned, stretched and headed down the passage towards their bedroom.

“Can he?” Gaila called after her.  She got no reply.

“Of course he can breathe,” Nyota said when the Orion caught up with her inside their hygiene station.

“Could his throat close up? What if he can’t swallow?”

“Gaila, if he’s well enough to call, he’s probably --,”

“We have to go there. Right now.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s sick, stupid. Very sick.”

“No, I meant why both of us? How did I come into this?”

“Because I can’t climb the fence, break into his study, disable his intruder alarm AND check that he’s still alive. That’s too many jobs for one person.”

“No,” Nyota said flatly.

“No what?”

“No, I won’t help you break Starfleet housing regulations, or come with you even if you do find a legal way to get access to Messier 20.”

Nyota picked up her sonic dentabit, grimaced into the mirror and ran the cleaner over her top and bottom teeth. Gaila folded her arms while her roommate flossed, whitened and polished. Nyota wasn’t giving off any scent except her shampoo.

“I don’t get it,” the Orion said at last. “Last night you came home stinking --,”

“Gaila …,”

“Smelling of him too, so you cannot tell me he spent the lab hours in his office. And you can’t tell me you don’t care about how he is feeling right now.”

“I have a class in forty-five minutes. We are not discussing this -- this is your problem.”

Gaila had learned the meaning of the Standard phrase ‘seeing red’. Now she began to experience it. Uhura had gathered up all her hair with one hand, while the other was searching inside the open drawer for an elastic tie. The Orion stepped forward, caught the ponytail and pulled. Nyota shrieked. Gaila forced her head back so she could hardly keep her balance.

“Gaila! You’re hurting! Gaila!” Nyota tried to reach behind her, but she couldn’t do that and remain standing. “Why are you hurting me?”

“Why are you hurting him?”

“I’m not--,”

“Pheromones don’t lie. The only ‘problem’ we have right now is you.”

Nyota threw an elastic tie in her roommate’s face. “Hormones are not the boss of me. I’m the one who gets to choose.”

“Ha!” Gaila tugged the ponytail back and forth, forcing Nyota to shake her head at what she’d just said. “You’re not making choices for yourself. You’re making them for someone else.”

“My God, at last! You get it.”

“Oh, I get it, sure. There’s this person you tell me about over and over again, who disappeared on you, and you need to know what happened to them before you can get on with the rest of your life. And yet you have nothing to show me. No pictures, no vids, no tokens of affection, not even correspondence. What am I supposed to think? I’ll tell you – I think Dean Rousseau was so right. You shut everyone out. You actually invent imaginary friends--,”

“I do not!!” Nyota yelled.

“Yeah sure,” Gaila released her with a shove. “Just get a therapist.”

The Orion marched out of the hygiene station. She yanked her uniform tunic off its hanger as she passed through their dressing room, and wrestled her way into the garment while she carried on to the kitchen. She took a stool from the breakfast bar, fetched her PADD from the coffee table, and carried both of these through the study and out the glass doors to the garden. She planted the stool against the back fence and climbed onto its seat so she could see the other side.

She threw her PADD down on Spock’s lawn. Then she grabbed the fence, hooked the heel of her left boot onto the top edge of its timber panels and vaulted over. It wasn’t a graceful landing, but she had the necessary padding.

She had hacked the Commander’s security system weeks ago. Her secret -- she thought it might make a nice Christmas gift for her roommate, making it possible for Nyota to surprise Spock with HIS Christmas gift.  Well … one way or another her work wouldn’t go to waste. Gaila heard the lock release on his study doors and was about to glide them apart when she heard a noise and looked behind her.

Uhura was climbing over the fence. The Orion smiled to herself, and went inside.

***

Nyota entered cautiously, checking each room before she moved on to the next. There was a potted African violet on top of Spock’s study console, and another on a nearby shelf. In the lounge she spotted the fire pot on his coffee table, next to a third flower. The replicator dispenser in the kitchen held a cold cup of tea, and Spock’s scarf was lying on the floor.

She picked it up. She passed Gaila at the front door, reprogramming the intruder alarm. And then she crept along the passage, not looking at the semi-opaque wall on her left but straight ahead. At the bottom there was an alcove meant to display a decorative object. It contained a small white trough with four more blooming violets.

“Commander?”

She waited ten seconds before calling his name again, and then another fifteen. Clutching the scarf harder, she turned the corner into his bedroom.

The bed was empty. The mattress had shifted so it wasn’t straight -- the corners stuck out over the edges of the frame. The sheets were damp and twisted. The pillows and quilt had fallen on the floor in front of the bedside table, which held yet another potted flower.

“Commander Spock?”

Nyota approached the dressing room slowly.  She tried to peer inside without being seen, but no one was there. She recognised the great coat, its collar draped over the hygiene station door.  The door stood open. Her vantage point gave her a slice of visibility into the last room of his apartment: she saw an open cabinet drawer, filled with a rumpled grey towel, and the replacement nib for a dentabit on the floor.

“Gaila!”

She had gone cold, and could not move. She heard her roommate enter the bedroom, watched her slip past and go on ahead into the station.  And after that she could hear him, barely. He spoke in Vulcan, apologising to his assistant for causing this inconvenience.

“C.B.,” Gaila said firmly, “I need you in here.”

She came, though she didn’t feel herself move. Spock was slumped on the floor, in the corner where the shower panel met the wall.  His eyes fluttered, unable to fully close or open.  He wore crumpled meditation robes with the collar fastenings undone. And she his could see the portion of his chest it revealed, how that rose and fell with his quick, shallow breaths.

He spoke again, said it was too late to water the flowers.

“What is he saying?” Gaila asked.

Nyota turned away. If she spoke, or tried to speak, she’d lose her hold. She went back the way she came and attacked the bed -- stripping off the sheets, yanking the cases from the pillows. She lunged at the mattress to put it back in alignment. She raked open several drawers until she found clean linen, and then let herself go in a frenzy of spreading, smoothing, filling, plumping and tucking. Finally, she laid the quilt over the top of everything, and centred the African violet on the bedside table.

Then she went back to the hygiene station.

“Okay,” she said.

She and Gaila each lifted one of his arms over their shoulders and pulled Spock to his feet. They got him to the bed, but Nyota decided her work wasn’t good enough. So Gaila kept him sitting up on the edge of the mattress while her roommate fetched all the cushions from his sofas and piled them in front of the headboard like a bolster.

He seemed to fall asleep as soon as they helped him lie back. They covered him with the quilt, and then stood side by side a while, just watching. Gaila gave her a hug, which must have felt like squeezing a stone.

“I guess he'll need to go to Academy Medical,” Nyota said.

The Orion made a dismissive noise. Uhura had yet to meet a non-Terran who liked Terran doctors.

“Well," she tried to make a case, "he can’t stay here.”

“Why not?” Gaila asked. “He has someone to look after him.”

“Who?”

“You.”

“Me? What about you?”

“I am his teaching assistant. I need to cover his classes.”

“I have --,”

“You can get an exemption to audit your lectures,” Gaila said.

“Only with a doctor’s authorisation.”

“Which we will get.”

“So we are taking him to Academy Medical?”

Gaila rolled her eyes, and left the room. Nyota heard her talking to someone on her PADD, someone she seemed to know well. After a few minutes she returned.

“Right, that’s done. He says he can be here in twenty minutes.”

“Who?” Nyota asked.

“Friend of Jim’s.”

“Jim who?”

“Gotta go,” Gaila replied. “I’ll put another breakfast stool on this side of the fence, to make it easier to climb. And I’ll message you – did you bring your PADD?”

“Um, no.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll get it – I’ll leave it in the Commander's study.”

***

After Gaila left, Nyota spent several minutes not moving. She was determined it would be longer than that, long enough to reorganise her thoughts and put back in order what the morning’s events had completely messed up. But Spock came half awake and started to fret in his whispery voice.

“…alek, uf, …alek,”

He clawed at his sheets and quilt; she could not tell if he was trying to tear them apart or whether his brain could no longer instruct his hands to move in the same direction. She went to the hygiene station and soaked a hand towel in cold water. She wrung out the excess moisture, took it back to the bed and draped it over his head and throat like a sash.

He made a couple of ‘ah’ sounds as the cloth touched him, and his hands relaxed.

Only then did she start work on herself.  She paced back and forth at the foot of his bed, reviewing her fight with Gaila.  What bothered her most was when the Orion claimed she smelled of Spock's pheromones also. Remembering made Nyota huff in frustration.  A one-sided attraction she could control (barring this moment of weakness, unless she could justify reducing the charge against herself from infatuation to philanthropy). But if she was drawing him as much as he was drawing her, she didn’t know if she could fight that.

All the defences she had been able to hide behind were falling away.  She’d told herself Gaila was attracted to Spock.  She’d told herself he was married. Surely he would be – an ambassador’s son? According to T’Shin, not all Vulcans were bonded as children, but among important families like hers, finding the right partner was too critical to be left for the offspring to decide. T’Shin spoke about her late husband sometimes. Fifty years her senior, she said she had been dubious but dutiful when she agreed to become his second bondmate. In retrospect, she found her own reasons to consider the pairing successful.

Nyota supposed that any cultural rule would have its exceptions. But even if Spock were one of these, and not bonded, why would he waste his time with a human? And why should she waste hers? Sarek made it clear what he thought of her. And while she might want to believe the Commander’s kind words in the meditation chapel meant he accepted her right to be called T’Shin’s daughter --,

No, no, no, no, no …,

The security system computer announced a visitor, and this time Nyota welcomed the distraction.  She went out Spock’s front door and across Messier 20's foyer to open the entrance.

The man waiting outside carried a medical kit.  This must be Gaila’s friend of a friend. He scanned Uhura up and down before he said, “You don’t look ill.”

“Oh,” she replied, "I’m not the patient. Come on in.”

He followed her back to the bedroom, set his case on the bed. When Nyota lifted the towel from Spock’s head, she heard the doctor say, “My god! He’s Vulcan.”

“Gaila didn’t tell you?”

“Suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” he opened the kit and took out a Bioscan. “Between her and Jim, it’s a wonder I know anything. You must be her roommate – are they as bad with you?”

“Jim who?” she asked.

But the doctor had aimed the scanner at Spock and was reading the feedback. “Influenza K,” he pronounced the diagnosis. “Seventy-two hour incubation. Would have expected better immune resistance from a Vulcan, unless his body temperature was compromised.”

“We did get caught in the rain last night.”

The doctor gave her a quizzical look before he pressed some buttons on the scanner and added, “I just hope Starfleet database has got some previous cases.” And then, perhaps to fill the silence while he waited for the results of the data search, he introduced himself. “Leonard McCoy, by the way.”

“Did Gaila mention anything about an exemption --,”

“Yeah, you’ll need one. He’s running a fever of 39.6 centigrade right now; he won’t know what’s going on.”

“Did you say thirty-nine?”

“Here we are,” McCoy interrupted. “Three cases. Fatigue and joint pain, followed by high fever peaking at forty point two --,” he whistled, “that was the worst. Temperature seems to return to normal within forty-eight hours, and after that it depends. Worse case had muscle weakness for another day, but the other two just suffered common cold symptoms.”

“Is it very contagious?”

“Shouldn’t be, if you’ve had your immunisation. Is this guy visiting?”

“No, faculty. Commander Spock, from the USS Farragut.”

“Eh? What the hell kind of medical officer runs that show?” McCoy put down the Bioscan, took up his PADD instead and battered it for information. “Damn fool thing,” he said, when it kept him waiting.

Spock’s eyes fluttered open, but they looked dull and unfocussed.

“Svai,” he croaked.

McCoy rolled his eyes, and pointed at his PADD screen. “Well, there you are. Last annual medical check not attended. How anybody thinks that’s not asking for trouble, I’ll never know. Definitely wouldn’t happen under my watch.”

“…ashau…svai.”

“What’s he saying?”

Nyota smiled. “He’s been worrying about his flowers.” She pointed at the plant on the bedside table. “Does he need any medication?”

“I’ll leave you with some decongestant vapour masks,” McCoy typed something else in his PADD. “I won’t bother with pain killers -- my bioethics professor tells me Vulcans consider them an insult. What’s your cadet number?”

“56-1704.”

“Exemption should be on your PADD in a few seconds. If you’ve missed a lecture already you’ve got a week to access the vid.”

“Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for coming round.”

After he left she made a brief detour into the study to fetch her PADD. She activated her exemption while she poured out Spock’s old cup of tea and asked the replicator to make the same again, in a new cup. It gave her theris-masu, very strong and peppery. She held her nose over the rim and smelled it, replayed some fond memories.

She moved the chair Spock had in his lounge and set it down at his bedside. Then she brought her drink and her tablet and settled herself with a resolve to steady her mind by getting some work done. She accessed the Academy library files to see what information they had about the care and feeding of African violets.


	10. Surpassing all Touches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told some readers they would have to wait a week for this chapter, but I like it so much I don't want to hold it back. We're getting there, sort of.

“Midterm madness,” Tiavro said to himself, since there was no one else he could tell.

Exam times were the worst for illness.  Everyone compromised their natural immunity under the combined stresses of exam preparation, the writing and marking, not to mention any celebrations held to mark the end of it all, and plans for the upcoming break. Silver Cavendish, who normally assisted the Dean of Faculty and shared his office, had come down with this year’s virus. So Ensign Dre had to work double duty.

Dean Rousseau had started his eleven twenty briefing with the high admirals, to discuss the late admission of a Bolian candidate for the Academy. With less than fifteen minutes’ notice, Tiavro managed to quarantine a fifth floor toilet.  And he found a cover for one of the visitor’s chairs, something with aesthetic qualities to disguise its real purpose, protecting the furniture from the Bolian’s caustic perspiration.

At the same time he took a call on Silver’s channel from Professor Khauri. The XenoCulture professor needed another guest lecturer for his first year class at fourteen hundred hours. Tiavro messaged two possible substitutes.  And twelve resumes were delivered, for positions in the newly created Concealment Engineering department.  They needed to be reviewed.

Doctor Santiago, Dean of Faculty, arrived late. Security images showed her detained by O’Fallon, the Head of Medicine, on the steps outside Administration. Persistent with whatever issue he had, O’Fallon trailed the Dean all the way to her fifth floor office. As they passed Tiavro, he caught snatches of their conversation, and a mood on both sides that was obstinate. He quickly scanned Silver’s incoming messages for anything that would give him the excuse to interrupt and force O'Fallon to come back later.

And then Reception hailed him through his own console.

“Hey, Zamir,” Tiavro called out, still scrolling through Silver's messages, “how are you?”

“Has the Faculty Dean made it upstairs yet?”

“Just.”

“Ah. Tiavro, I have a problem.”

“My parking spaces for problems are all full.”

“Take a look at your Security feed.”

Ensign Dre twisted round to see the images. There was a slender, diminutive visitor standing in Reception, concealed beneath the hood of a boxy, mid-calf grey parka.

“Who’s that?”

“Commander Spock’s wife.”

Tiavro abandoned Silver’s inbox, turned round properly and leaned closer to the display. “Zam, Commander Spock does not have a wife.”

“She says she is.”

“Vulcans can lie,” the Dean’s aide said, “in spite what they say.”

“Yeah, well, she is different. Walked in – the Vulcan Embassy always beam through their citizens who visit Earth.”

“So what do you want me to do?”

“She’s demanding to see Spock.”

“He’s still in quarantine.”

“Tiavro, I’ve tried to reason with her. But she won't take no for an answer – ‘I should be able to choose when I see my husband’, she says, that sort of thing. So now she’s asking to speak with Doctor Santiago.”

“All right,” Tiavro relented. “Send her up. I’ll put her in the boardroom, sound her out. Could you do me a favour, and shift Santiago’s first meeting forward by one hour? And contact the attendees.”

“Got it.”

Busy as he was, the Dean’s aide looked forward to meeting this stranger. Reading Vulcans was something of a personal perk, because he never knew what he would get. Most of them were trained in techniques that could block his empathic telepathy, but not all were equally skilled. And even the best ones might not realise they were dealing with a Betazoid. Tiavro got away with much more of that at Starfleet Headquarters, since most visitors assumed he was human.

But the Vulcan woman in the grey parka, when she stepped into his office, seemed prepared for the worst. Her mind was like a fortress; Ensign Dre could not find a way inside. The only thing Tiavro could conclude was that this person must be particularly concerned with being discovered. He tried to put her at ease, and offered her tea.

Tea, she made clear, was not what she came for. He resorted to the diversion he thought up while waiting for her to reach the fifth floor.

“Madam, I checked with Academy Medical while you were in Reception. A few minutes ago, Commander Spock was collected by a quarantine vehicle and will be in transit to an appointment with the Contagion Control Unit.”

“When will he return?”

“They estimate the tests will take an hour.”

“I wish to wait for him in his faculty accommodation.”

“And I would be happy to escort you there, once I can be certain the premises are safe. Would you allow me enough time to confirm this?”

Tiavro felt the woman’s guard slip, just enough for him to catch a feeling of helplessness. And then her defences returned.

“I would prefer a private place to wait.”

The Dean’s aide nodded. He asked her to follow him out of the office and along the corridor which had suites for VIP visitors.  He showed her the one Ambassador Sarek often used, though he did not tell her that. He gave her a quick tour of its facilities; he demonstrated the security features which allowed her to identify anyone who wanted to enter and control their access. When he assured her he would not need more than twenty minutes to confer with Contagion Control, she relented. Tiavro locked her inside. He ran back to Doctor Santiago’s office and begged the Faculty Dean for a private word.

It meant Santiago could dismiss the Head of Medicine, which put her in a slightly better mood. The Betazoid ensign explained why he needed a free hour.

“Spock has got married already?” the Dean asked.

“What do you mean, already?”

“Well, I’m sure it was only a couple of weeks ago that Captain Pike rang me. Said he had given the Commander orders to find a partner, and would I take a relaxed view of the fraternisation rules if it came to that.”

Ensign Dre could only shrug.

“Another one of those messy situations you love,” Doctor Santiago said. “I’d better not keep you.”

***

African violets could not stand to be left out in the cold. In fact, their surroundings should never become cooler than sixteen degrees centigrade, and only lukewarm water given to them to prevent their roots from rotting. All of which meant that, when Spock purchased his flowers in September, it was already too late to keep them outdoors in San Francisco. Uhura knew this now. She also knew that Spock knew, but chose to buy them anyway.

African violets were also native to Tanzania. Thirty-seven variants had been identified, with the highest concentration of those found in the Nguru mountains of the Morogoro Rural district, which happened to be where her father grew up. Some of the flower species were rarer than others. Uhura read all this botanical information on the Commander’s PADD, part of the care instructions which downloaded automatically when he placed his order with the local nursery.

So even if she wanted to doubt Gaila, and believe this attraction was purely her own predicament, the little clues and bits of evidence to the contrary just would not stop appearing.

And she wanted to doubt Gaila.

Spock’s fever broke after twenty-nine hours, but for the best part of another day he preferred to stay in bed. He drank a little water, but did not want tea. His voice improved only when Uhura persuaded him to try a vapour mask.

It had to stay in place for one hour.  To relieve the tedium she brought his PADD and asked if he had any Vo’ektaya tracks he thought she might appreciate. They listened to three pieces. Whenever she thought of a question she typed a message on her own tablet and sent it to him.  They carried on this exchange of texts long after the music finished and the mask had been discarded.

In his last message, he entrusted her with a pass code – _taluhk_. He asked if she would use it to open the secured cabinet in his lounge. She did, and forgot herself a moment, letting out a delighted squeak that he must have heard, when she saw what he kept inside. Why didn’t she restrain herself, instead of saying how much she had always wanted to learn to play the _ka’athyra_? That was just giving encouragement to the situation, if there was a situation.

When she got her discipline back, and told him she should audit the playback of her lectures, he did not want her to use an earpiece.

“Are you certain? It is Rudimentary Navigation again,” she said, “you’ll be bored.”

“Perhaps.”

It came in handy, however, to be able to pause Professor Abdulov in mid-sentence and ask the Commander to explain the matter/antimatter reaction in different words.

***

Cadet Jadillu came to Messier 20 Cluster after classes had finished for that day. She brought Keralan food purchased from Sreedharan, a North Beach restaurant Spock once mentioned when she asked whether any Terran dishes came close to Vulcan cuisine. His appetite had not yet returned, but that presented no problem.  The two women compensated – little wonder given Cadet Uhura had hardly eaten since he had been awake. She and Gaila devoured most of the food, exchanged campus gossip and let him to work his way through a few spoonfuls of coconut rice.

He allowed himself be scolded and sent back to his seat when he tried to help them tidy the kitchen. But he did insist on returning the sofa cushions to their rightful places. He no longer needed the bolster. And he carried his chair back to the lounge.  He folded and replaced the throw Cadet Uhura had commissioned into temporary duty as both pillow and blanket. She had not slept enough during the time he was ill, and her Cardassian midterm was less than twenty-two hours away. He told her she would get a better night’s rest in her own bed.

He did not want her to leave. Her long association with T’Shin made her presence feel like an extension of home, and the comfort of home. She spoke to him in Vulcan familiar. She respected the taboos of touch, unlike most human medical personnel. Christine Chapel often said he was her worst patient, but she simply could not understand the psi impact of all the grabbing and prodding and close examination that went with Terran medicine. Much as he admired the Chief Medical Officer, she never truly gave respect to the strength of his species. He did not want to be told when or how he needed help, but to be consulted. Cadet Uhura understood this.

And though he could not calculate the probability, he suspected she had been comfortable with him.

She seemed to forget the formality of rank, if the subject of conversation excited her particular aptitudes. While working through a mock paper for her Cardassian exam, she stopped in the middle of reading a question to expound a personal hypothesis – that the speaking rhythms of different languages might reflect or influence the temperament of their native speakers. She explained the English origins of Standard and its iambic, comparing the stress on alternative syllables to a careful balancing act between reason and passion. She noted correctly that Vulcan had no stresses, except where added in ancient poetry. Speaking Cardassian meant employing twin and triplet stresses (she read him a sample passage from her textbook) with only single syllables of relief. Klingon …

It was not necessary to explain Klingon.

He did not mind having his nose and mouth covered with that cloying vapour mask, if he could have her thoughts as compensation. He had seen and admired her body; now she was revealing more and more of her mind. He desired this equally.  She would not notice, perhaps, how longingly he gazed at her while she was silent.

That this attempt to cultivate a relationship had been so successful so quickly was probably the most effective treatment for his infection. He did not yet feel well enough to play the ka’athyra. But he did show her the harp. She had to restrain her human excitement, and expressed her desire to learn how to play – a most encouraging development. If she would agree to let him teach her, it would provide a situation where even Vulcans considered it culturally permissible for unbonded individuals to touch each other’s hands.

Once his apartment was tidy, the two cadets wished him good night. They left single file through his study: Uhura first and Gaila following. Before she closed the door behind her, the Orion turned and made a gesture. The warp drive engineers at Iowa dockyards taught her that one arm, with the elbow bent at ninety degrees while the hand rotated anticlockwise from the wrist, was a signal meaning ‘all systems go’.

He acknowledged her assessment with a single nod.

***

The following morning he slept late but had more energy, enough to shower, shave and change clothes. Cadet Jadillu sent him a message at ten hundred thirty-seven hours, asking if he wished to review the exam assignments for Mesa and Intrix programmers, with a postscript to say there were leftover medhu vadai in their refrigeration unit, if he had not yet eaten.

He replied.  Twelve minutes forty-three seconds later she and Cadet Uhura climbed over the back fence. Gaila downloaded the examinations into his PADD while Uhura replicated tea and warmed the dumplings. They convened a brunch meeting round his coffee table.

At eleven forty-nine the security system interrupted proceedings to tell them Ensign Tiavro Dre was outside the front entrance of Messier 20 Cluster, requesting access. Spock gave his permission.

***

The Dean’s aide made a point to greet Spock and the two cadets individually, and to ask the Commander about his health. The Vulcan had a rasp in his voice, but seemed fine otherwise. More than fine – the Commander did not bother to pull back his aura of contentment. All three people, sharing food round the coffee table, exuded that exclusive happiness of friends.

Ensign Dre had no desire to destroy this lovely gathering. When he thought about the woman he had waiting in the VIP suite, he wished he could leave her locked in there.  Whatever she concealed from the world could only be unpleasant. But in reality he could protect Spock more, if protection were needed, by giving him the truth as Tiavro understood it.

“Commander,” he said, “your wife has just arrived at the Deans’ offices, and she is asking to see you.”

Just like that, he ruined everything.

Spock yanked in his stray emotions and closed them up behind the psi equivalent of steel doors. Tiavro got that weird impression of a mind become mechanical, the sensation of Vulcan logic in progress.

Cadet Uhura, who had been the most constrained with her feelings before the announcement, now gave off uneven bursts of contradicting reactions, relief and distress at the same time. She stood up from the sofa and asked to be excused while she fled the lounge and hurried past the Dean’s aide down the corridor that led to Spock’s sleeping area.

Gaila, open as a billboard, was not sure what to do, but hoped she would not be asked to leave.

“Ensign,” the Commander rose slowly from his seat. “I do not have a wife.”

That statement was enough to settle Gaila’s mind. Tiavro noted her determination to stay as long as possible.

“Well, I did want to confirm that with you before I--,”

“Describe this female.”

“Um, Vulcan, maybe one point six meters tall, slight in build. Her face was round, but her chin came to a point. And her hair was lighter than yours Commander, not a colour I’ve seen occur naturally, at least not on Earth. Bluish.”

Spock nodded.

“We thought it odd that she came to Administration on foot. If you will forgive my Betazoid presumption, sir, I sensed some anxiety when I told her I could not bring her to your apartment without some preliminary checks. Is there anything you suggest we do?”

“I am willing to meet her here,” Spock said.

“Are you sure?”

“I do not believe she poses any danger, Ensign, if that is your concern. I would be grateful if you could detain her another thirty minutes, and give me time to prepare.”

Tiavro dipped his head. “Yes sir.”

***

Spock watched the Dean’s aide close the front door behind him. Without turning to face his assistant, the Commander gave orders.

“Cadet Jadillu, clear the table and return to your quarters. I will contact you after the end of your Intrix invigilation, no later than eighteen hundred hours.”

He listened to the sounds she made stacking their dishes, sliding her PADD along the surface of the table and transferring it to her case. She walked past him to the kitchen and back again without meeting his eyes or speaking. She left through the study.

Then Spock went quietly down the hallway. Through the semi-transparent dividing wall he could make out Uhura’s silhouette, standing near the foot of his bed.  He stopped short of turning the corner when he reached the bottom of the passageway. It put them shoulder to shoulder, more or less, with the silicate panel between them.

He knew more about crying than she might realise. He believed she had finished the worst of it, probably shutting herself inside the hygiene station so the noise would not carry. All she had left now was laboured breathing.

“Cadet.”

After a sigh and five seconds of silence, she replied.  “Commander.”

Spock considered a number of opening statements, rejected several.

“I believe this visit may be intended to put pressure on me.”

He heard her swallow.  “It…,” another swallow, “it is the prerogative of a bondmate to --,”

“This female is _not_ my bondmate.”

Through the silicate, he watched her raised a shadowy hand and wipe her face.  Then he continued.

“I believe she is the widow of my first cousin, and my father’s current preference in his continuing efforts to seal my matrimonial fate.”

He had succeeded in rescuing her from sadness, because the sniffing sound she made was the beginning of amusement.

“I can confirm that, to date, I have not been impressed with any of his recommended candidates.”

A silhouette can smile. The muscles which pulled her lips into that expression also plumped Cadet Uhura’s cheeks. He believed he could turn the conversation now.

“And it has occurred to me,” he said, “that I might be better served by giving attention to the females he appears to reject.”

He saw her smile fall away, and was not sure what that meant.

“You may correct me,” he spoke more softly, “if I am wrong. But I believe that during the short period of our acquaintance, we have developed a mutual regard for each other.”

She took a long breath in, and exhaled. It began to concern him that, in addition to this, she paused for another five seconds before she replied.

“Yes," she said.

He let himself feel joy. The emotion inspired a succession of pleasing but irrational thoughts, one of which involved the purchase of dozens more African violets, and covering every empty surface of his apartment with the Tanzanian flowers. He brought these delusions in check after their few moments of freedom, reminding himself that what existed between them could not be considered anything better than friendship, unless she gave him more specific confirmation.

What she did say, as he was collecting himself, had a sharp tone.

“Well, congratulations Gaila the matchmaker. She is going to be unbearable now.”

He agreed the Orion’s character presented particular challenges, but thought Uhura should give credit where credit was due.

“Cadet Jadillu has played to the strengths of her species. Without her help, I would not have known the appropriate way to conduct myself with respect to my feelings for you.”

Uhura did not change her tone of voice when she replied.

“Your decisions should not be based on your feelings. That is not logical. They should be based on what is best for you. My feelings for you do not change the fact that I do not believe I am what is best for you.”

Spock took a step backwards, surprised.  Given how little they knew each other, what could make her so certain she would prove deficient?  He recalled Gaila’s assurance -- Uhura had no reason to restrain her pheromonal response to him.  And yet she did.  Perhaps there was something Cadet Jadillu did not yet know about her roommate.

So he had to retreat, and assess the situation from this new perspective. He must defer to her judgement.  Perhaps no relationship could progress between the two of them. But there was attraction and more; she admitted that. If the best he could hope to achieve in his life was a bond with some other female, negotiated without feeling to meet his biological needs, he wanted to have one good memory.  One he could retrieve, now and again, to remind himself of the moment he received an honest, affectionate connection. If he could not achieve this, he would have regrets.

“I am grateful that you give such consideration to my welfare,” he told her.

“I should return your stylus,” she said abruptly.

“Not necessary,” Spock insisted. “The token of support was given without condition. In future, should a situation arise where my assistance would be useful, my hope is that you would request it.”

He heard her exhale quietly.

“Thank you.”

“Perhaps …,”

He hesitated. He was in need of Gaila’s advice right now, whether this gamble he was about to take would only make matters worse.

“Perhaps I might ask …,”

The Orion would also tell him exactly what to say.

“What is it?”

He saw Uhura’s silhouette step forward as she asked the question. She reached out -- her fingertips touched the silicate panel that stood between them.

“May I kiss you?”

He could not bear to count the seconds during which she did not respond.

“I do not wish to imply any obligation on your part to agree,” he blurted out when the strain became too much. “And…and I apologise if my request is inappropriate. Where Terran customs are concerned, there is little opportunity to learn those connected with intimacy--,”

He was stopped by her touch.

She had rushed to him, while he was intent on his words, and lightly brushed his lower lip with the distal phalanx of her right index finger. And he stared at her, amazed. How?  How, by the sweet emotion she communicated in that atom of time, could she surpass the sum of all touches he had ever received?

Then she took away her hand.  As he watched, she lifted herself onto the metacarpal pads of her feet and looked him directly in the eye. The adjustment put her mouth thirteen centimetres from his. No distance at all, yet he held back, struggling to believe.

And she must have understood. She lowered her gaze the way she had when they stood in the rain outside Messier 18 Cluster, and fixed her attention on his lips, making it clear what she wanted him to do next.


	11. Lelar

Spock waited in the lobby of Messier 20 Cluster, a folded umbrella in one hand. Outside, an Academy limosine turned into the cul-de-sac and pulled up as close as it could to the front doors of the complex. Ensign Dre got out on the driver’s side.

The last memory of Lelar that Spock could consult dated back seven years, three months and a day. She had accompanied her husband Savid to a convocation of clan Surak, and was in the final dimester of her second pregnancy.  As he recalled, she was only present for the opening and closing rites during that occasion. In her absence, her first child Kanenn became the responsibility of his extended family, and learned to walk by clutching the robes and offered hands of various relatives to steady himself.

The infant stumbled into his half-human second cousin on the afternoon of the last day, and grabbed the fingers on Spock’s left hand. Unrestrained baby thoughts spilled across the skin connection. Spock noted them, and found it curious that such a young child should feel a quality of sadness he would expect from a person with greater experience.

He gave the little boy what reassurance he could.

Tiavro Dre waited until Spock activated the lobby entrance, came outside and positioned the umbrella so it kept most of the wind-blown rain from the front passenger side of the car. Then the Betazoid aide opened the door. Lelar ducked her head. She pulled the hood of her parka forward and climbed out. The weather made any exchange of words impractical; the Commander gave the Ensign a nod to indicate gratitude for his assistance before guiding his cousin’s widow indoors.

Lelar remained quiet after she entered his apartment. She shook her head when he offered to take her coat, though she did draw back her hood and smooth the hair which the wind had blown loose from her coiled plaits. She walked through to the lounge and stopped in front of his coffee table, studying it.

“You have been ill,” she said at last.

He considered her words, as he took off his own coat and hung it in the closet near the front door. She pronounced ‘ill’ in a lower register, as if she wished to test the veracity of what she had been told.

“My own carelessness,” he replied. “I did not dress appropriately for the temperature. Do you require any food or drink?”

“No.”

He replicated a cup of tea for himself, to replace the one he neglected after Tiavro’s first visit.

“I had been informed,” he would test the veracity of his own understanding, “that you would accompany my father in November, during his biannual posting to Earth.”

Lelar answered quickly.

“I wish to conduct these negotiations on my own terms.”

With his back to her, Spock raised his eyebrows.

“You have introduced yourself to Academy personnel as my wife," he said, "as if we had completed negotiations and considerably more.”

“I expect the logic of my arguments to yield the expected result.”

He knew Lelar had a reputation for boldness.  But in this case, she had no idea how greatly she overestimated herself.  Before he turned to face her, Spock let himself into the deep, secure place within his mind where he had placed the memory of Uhura’s kiss.

It had been more than he knew enough to hope for. There was no haste.  For the first time he could act without the impulse of ponn farr adrenalin, and so he treasured how slowly the distance closed between them. He was aware that his lips parted and his mouth grew wet.  His held breath exhaled when they touched because of  the incredible warmth of her transmitted emotion.

And he could taste her.  There was a background of cilantro and asafoetida from the medhu vadai they had both eaten, and a fruit ester – perhaps the balm he once saw her apply from a small pot she kept in her satchel. Finally one of her salty tears which, in a momentary lapse of control, he let his tongue protrude and lick from the corner of her mouth.

He requested one kiss; he was permitted five. After that she let his forehead rest against hers, and his nose nestle in the plum of her cheek.  And she confessed, telepathically, to imagining a number of scenarios which might resolve like this.

“I am not sure what T’Shin would say,” she whispered, “if she knew.”

“She might hold me responsible,” he whispered back. “I have not set the best example.”

Satisfied, he packed the memory away, removed his tea from the replicator, and took it with him to the lounge. He set his cup on the coffee table, near the African violet.

“Then please,” he said to Lelar, “present your offer.”

He sat down, but she remained standing.

“When I learned you had dissolved your bond and rejected your place at the Vulcan Science Academy, I will admit to a feeling of envy,” Lelar said. “I also wanted to lead a different life than the one my parents planned for me.”

Spock stared at his tea cup. He might have corrected her impression, particularly about how much he had wanted either of those life choices. But he would hear the rest of her argument first.

“As a girl I was drawn to our ancient rituals,” she went on, “and the great authority they held over Vulcan lives. I wanted to be more than the common citizen who observes or follows instructions during those rites. I wanted the power of direction – to conduct those ceremonies as a priestess.”

He quirked an eyebrow.

“But I had been bonded to Savid, in the line of Surak.  And in the view of my family clan Churut, this match constituted a considerable advance in social standing. Also, my father’s friendship with your uncle Karn led to a number of important contracts for supply of materials from Churut quarries. So you can see what I might have disrupted, had I chosen to rebel as you did.”

Spock did open his mouth to say something, but Lelar had turned away. She walked into his study, and looked through the closed glass doors at the garden.

“On the day Savid and I were married on Mount Seleya, I requested and was granted a private meeting with your matriarch T’Pau. I visited her again, many times, during my period of mourning. Our discussions regarding my possible admission as an acolyte were most interesting, and I was very close to a decision.”

Now Spock wondered how this line of discourse could possibly end with a negotiation about their bonding.

“Should I surmise,” he asked, “that you have since changed your mind?”

“My mind, Spock, remains constant. But now I find my father, my father-in-law and his brother prevailing upon me to uphold the status I gained when I married, and rescue the honour of clan Surak by providing a mate for its most recalcitrant son.”

“Please let it be noted that you have not been prevailed upon by me.”

Lelar turned to look at him.

“Not yet," she said.

Spock took his tea and leaned back in his chair to sip it and return her stare.

“I make this proposal,” she said. “That we leave for Vulcan as soon as possible. I have use of a freight vessel from the quarries, currently in space dock. It will take us directly to Mount Seleya. We will petition T’Pau to marry us. Afterwards, I will remain with the priestesses and pursue my investiture, and you may continue your work with Starfleet.”

“And your children?”

“Kanenn and T’Mes have been in Tivan’s care since the fifth day of ta’Krat last year. I believe they are better served by my sister-in-law than they ever were while I attempted to be their mother.”

Wind lashed the rain against the glass doors of his study, and Lelar backed away from them. She returned to the lounge, sat down on his sofa.

“What do you drink?” she asked.

“Tie Guan Yin Oolong,” he replied.

“I will sample this.”

While he got up and programmed the replicator to make a second cup, Spock gave Lelar an unprompted summary of his first term of service aboard the USS Farragut, the projects undertaken and some of the challenges faced during the mission. He did not mention his second pon farr. He simply explained that the nature of fleet work meant that the duration of a mission, or any part of it, was not always certain.

“Therefore,” he said as he set down Lelar’s tea on the coffee table, “were I to take a bondmate, and remain in Starfleet, it would be imperative that she accompany me.”

Lelar picked up the cup and inhaled the aromatic steam.  But her eyes remained on him as he leaned forward to pick up his own drink again.

“Space travel,” she remarked, “is highly dangerous, as I have recently learned. What do Starfleet calculate as the percentage chance of survival during a mission?  Does it depend on the rank of the particular service person? Does it increase with the number of missions undertaken?”

At first Spock thought she enquired out of concern for her own safety.

“The majority of missions do not incur fatalities.”

Lelar’s brows lifted together and fell. “So, it is likely you would survive long enough to return to me at Mount Seleya … when need arises?”

“When need arises, it may not be possible to return.”

Lelar nodded slowly. “Another risk you must take. But you have chosen a risky profession, and are doubtless prepared for this.”

Spock checked his anger, but not before it caused him to clench his fingers hard enough to break the handle off his cup. He moved carefully, so as to keep the pieces fit together, carried them to the kitchen sink and set them in the basin. He stayed there, without speaking, for one minute and seventeen seconds.

“Lelar,” he said finally, “is this the substance of your offer?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Then it falls short of its objective. I am not the least inclined to accept a proposal which entirely prioritises the needs of one partner over the other.”

Lelar made a noise. He had no reason to doubt his own hearing, except that it sounded like a faint expression of derision.

“Spock,” she stood from the sofa, “as I understand the circumstances, this bonding has nothing to do with meeting your needs.”  When she saw the question in his look, she returned the same.

“Has it not been made clear to you, what pressure has been brought to bear upon clan Surak, and your father in particular?”

When he did not reply, she took a few steps closer, so that she faced him on the other side of his breakfast bar.

“The High Council were not pleased with your decision to join Starfleet. It confirmed their long held view that Terran genes undermine Vulcan strengths, but I’m sure you already know that. Did you also know that your father’s responsibilities as Ambassador were significantly curtailed as a result of your actions?”

When he still did not speak, Lelar closed her eyes momentarily, as if she marvelled at his ignorance.  Then she continued.

“But a much greater offence, in the Council’s opinion, would occur if you chose to mate with a human female, and introduce Vulcan DNA to the Terran gene pool. They consider that to be just as dangerous as the misguided psi training projects our people conducted on Earth shortly after First Contact. So your father has been given an ultimatum: bond his wayward son to a Vulcan or resign his diplomatic office.”

Spock had not spoken because he needed to go back over every conversation (or lack of one) which had occurred between himself and Sarek since he joined Starfleet. Nothing in his father’s words or actions had ever given him reason to think --,

“How do you know this?” he asked.

“From T’Pau. Vulcan’s secrets reside with the women of Mount Seleya, as they always have. It is another reason I wish to join them.”

Lelar certainly had the penetrating look he associated with the matriarch of clan Surak.

“Also,” she said, “T’Pau told me that she had to intervene, or else the Council would have added an additional punishment.  They intended to dissolve your parents’ bond and revoke your mother’s citizenship.”

“That cannot be done.”

Lelar shrugged.

“Admittedly, there is no historic precedent. But the same could be said for your father’s marriage.”

“T’Pau herself bonded my parents,” Spock said.

“Against the Council’s wishes.”

Until he could process the enormity of her revelations, Spock turned his back on her.

“It is understandable you have not been told,” she said quietly. “Any parent would attempt to protect their child from understanding the implications.  If the High Council opposed the marriage of a Vulcan and a human they would also, logically, oppose the existence of their offspring.”

Facing the passage, he could look down the bottom, where the silicate wall finished, and picture what had happened there before Lelar arrived. He could see himself from the back, and Uhura standing slightly to one side with her hand reaching up to brush his lips and hush his apologies. The apologies he had made for being half human.

He did not know what to do now. His logic had somehow become misplaced.

“So,” he paused, careful to gauge whether he could keep the pain from being audible in his voice, “it has been somewhat inaccurate to say you came intending to negotiate.”

“Somewhat.  But credit me, Spock, with having been truthful. Had I come with your father, would you have been made fully aware of the situation?”

She sounded almost kind.

“As far as the High Council is concerned, you are an experiment they never approved, an experiment which has failed. You have not become the perfect Vulcan citizen, as your father assured them you would, and now they withdraw their support for his illogical project. You have rejected all previous bondmates Sarek has proposed. If you reject me, there will be no more chances.”

A sigh escaped him; he could not stop it in time. So he walked away, down the passage and round the corner into his sleeping area. Once out of her sight, he fisted his hands and drove the knuckles into his forehead, as if that might stimulate the frontal lobes to reassert themselves over the dread that made his skull ache. He counted his breaths: the length of inhale (three point one seconds), the hold (two seconds) and the exhale (four point four). After forty-seven of these, he understood that a change of surroundings was needed. He would not think properly while he remained with her.

When he returned to the kitchen Lelar stood at the sink, studying the broken cup.

“Would your offer allow for a period of consideration?” he asked.

“How long?”

“Overnight.”

“I have not arranged accommodation.”

“You may stay here,” he said.

“No,” she said, sharply. “Until I have your agreement, I will not consent to cohabit--,”

“I will vacate the premises."

Spock turned away again, glad she could not finish the sentence and glad he could not finish the thought of sharing any confined space with her for any length of time.

“I require only a few minutes to pack.”


	12. Meetings of Minds

Before the star rise, T’Pau was in her place.  Only her closest attendants accompanied her as she crossed the ledge which exited the temple on Mount Seleya, and bridged the gap between the sanctuary and the isolated rock formation that was Vulcan's most sacred enclosure. Once inside the circle of stones, she paused. The matriarch of clan Surak bowed her head and addressed the many who resided within her, the katra of many ancestors with which she had been entrusted.  When these had been revived, T’Pau continued. She climbed the six steps which led to the top of the high altar and proceeded to the far side, to the midpoint between its two great pillars.

With both hands in Vulcan salute, she placed her fingertips against the ancient stone. Her attendants stood ready to support her arms if she needed their help as the morning progressed.

Together with the ancestors, T’Pau reached out to bonds she had established with living members of the leading clans, the High Council, and heads of the Science Academy. These were the accepted ones.

But she also linked with many others, names known and unknown, who in one way or another did not concur or conform to the established ways.

As the stone received light and heat from their sun, so T’Pau received the thoughts of all these. And in this way she presided, eyes closed, over an esteemed conference of Vulcans present and past, as they discussed the greatest concerns facing their culture. Many issues had come and gone, over the thousands of mornings she had convened these meetings of minds.

But one item remained a continual source of debate – the relations between Vulcans and Terrans.

T’Pau herself was not impressed by Earth’s people. But she could not disallow that the few she met had left an impression upon her, or that a certain number of Vulcans were sufficiently moved to give their time and attention to Terrans, more than they might to other species. One of the conundrums she often posed to her morning assembly was this: if Earth is the least advanced civilisation in the Alpha quadrant, what has drawn some of us to them?

The thoughts which came from most of the accepted ones were dismissive. Humans appeal to weak Vulcans, they asserted, who were captivated by the way Terrans freely expressed emotions. But T’Pau would counter that argument.

“All non-Vulcan species show emotion. Following the logic you suggest, the ones you consider weak should be equally or more captivated by Tellarites or Andorians, with whom contact has existed for longer.”

More robust answers came from those with the closest Terran relationships. They claimed that, while humans were emotional, the best of them did not want to be slaves of their passions any more than Vulcans. Yet it was also true that they did not want the degree of emotional detachment and dependence upon logic advocated by the teachings of Surak. Humans were searching for another way.

T’Pau did not accept that such a way existed.

Yet she would be pandering to emotion herself if she became closed minded, and discouraged the attempt. To be logical was to be objective, to let the truth of a matter reveal itself over time. It was for this reason that she took steps, occasionally, to side with the minority, the so-called weak ones.  But not always.

This morning she perceived an urgency in the thoughts she received from Sarek son of Skon, and she knew she would soon have another decision to make.

***

Gaila was marking examinations in the third floor Computer Science lab when Commander Spock entered.

“Good afternoon, Cadet Jadillu.”

He wore his heavy coat and scarf, and carried a Starfleet issue suitcase, like the ones she’d seen ship crew bring with them when they disembarked for shore leave. He strode quickly past her through the lab and into his office. After that she heard him cough, and cough and cough and cough and cough. It was not a healthy sound.

“Sir?”

When he did not answer she paused the routine on her console and went to the office herself. She discovered him slumped in his chair behind his desk, eyes glassy and distant, breathing erratically.

“Sir, it’s just my opinion, but I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be rushing around yet, especially in this weather.”

Spock nodded, but added nothing else. Maybe he couldn’t.

“I’m going to make you a cup of tea,” Gaila decided, and went to the staff kitchen. She replicated a mixture of rosehips and ginger, because that’s what Nyota drank if she thought she was coming down with a cold. The Orion had never known the Commander to choose it, and had no idea whether it would be the least bit helpful. But he accepted the cup when it was offered. He had not changed his position in the chair.

“Sir?”

His eyes shifted in her direction.

Gaila tilted her head to study his face. He wasn’t the most readable man she’d ever met.

“Might this be another one of those moments when the need to be honest matters more than the need to keep things private?”

Spock took a long drink from his cup before he said, “Take a seat, Cadet.”

After he had related, word for word, his conversation with Lelar, including diversions to explain some things about himself she would not know, Gaila sat with her mouth open. The facts flew round in her brain like so many ships in orbit waiting for their landing instructions.

“So,” she tried to ground a few of them, “you are half human. Is there anyone else like you?”

“I do not believe so.”

“That seems very lonely,” she blurted out, and then added, “if you don’t mind my saying, sir.”

The Commander took another drink of tea and said nothing.

“What I mean is, you can’t be that alone already, and then marry someone who will only make you feel lonelier.”

Even she could see this wasn’t the kindest way to address the problem. Her programmer’s brain started working.  She brought down a few more of the facts she had just learned and started to park them side by side.

“Okay, okay, what I really mean is this -- if Cadet Uhura were willing to marry you --,”

“A highly speculative premise.”

“But if she _were_ ,” Gaila pressed on, “would you pay any attention to Lelar’s offer?”

She felt he was considering her question.

“The High Council are aware that, because of my hybrid genetics, there is a high likelihood that I could not father children. Therefore, it should not matter to them who I marry.”

"I'll take that as a no,” she said. “So we just need to come up with some way to make Uhura more, you know, convinced to take things further.”

Okay, she thought, now his face is readable.  And it’s pretty clear he thinks I don’t know what I’m talking about.

“She just has issues, Commander,” Gaila insisted, “bad things that happened in her past, and it makes her afraid to let anyone get close to her. But if we could work out some way to ….”

The Orion reviewed her facts again.

“Sir, I hope this question isn't offensive, but how well do you know the priestess ... sorry, what did you call her?”

“T'Pau," Spock answered her question. "She has officiated at ceremonies involving members of my family.  Outside of those, we have never spoken.”

“Do you think she might know what happened to Uhura’s Vulcan guardian?”

Finally, Spock seemed to switch on. He straightened in his chair, seemed more alert. His reply was still guarded.

“There is … a remote possibility.”

“Okay, okay,” Gaila clapped her hands.  "So go with me on this. How about you tell Lelar that you agree to go to this sacred mountain with her, but only if she will let Uhura come too?”

***

Cadet Jadillu, when she was designing code or envisioning an application to deal with a particular need, was a model of watertight, logical thinking. Her arguments were very persuasive.  When solving matters of a personal nature, she sounded equally confident.  But her thinking took giant leaps from one poorly formed supposition to another, and sounded like complete fantasy.

Her arguments were still very persuasive.

Gaila had yet to enrol in second year Xenoculture, where she would be taught the significant role played by T’Pau in Vulcan’s past and present. For now she was ignorant.  And so she thought it would be simple for Spock to introduce himself to the matriarch of clan Surak while in the company of a Terran female. The Orion did not think there was any audacity in asking T’Pau to accept Uhura as Spock’s bondmate instead of Lelar, or to ask the priestess to reveal information to an outsider concerning T’Shin, information that was not in general circulation among Vulcans.

T’Pau might be a keeper of secrets, but it was no secret what she thought of humans.

But if Lelar was telling the truth, and T’Pau had intervened so often on behalf of his father, then she either had extraordinary sympathy for Sarek, which was illogical, or her views on Vulcan/human interaction were more complex. What, precisely, did she think of Ambassador Sarek’s half human son? He ought to find out, and if he could make any kind of case to reinstate his father to full diplomatic responsibilities, it seemed imperative to do so.

But that was the most he believed he could achieve.

He doubted Gaila could persuade her roommate to come to Vulcan, or that he could persuade Lelar to take her. His cousin’s widow held veto power over the entire operation. He would need to ask if they might remain on Earth until classes finished for midterm break.  In addition, they would need to conceal or disguise their human traveller, since non-Vulcans were rarely permitted to tread the sacred ground on Mount Seleya. None of this would benefit Lelar, and so he did not anticipate her cooperation.

In spite all this, he told Gaila he would try.

***

The stool from their breakfast bar was still in the garden, getting soaked.  Nyota had not been in any reasonable state of mind when she left Spock’s apartment.  She forgot to bring it inside.

Now she wandered fretfully from room to room to room, noting the kitchen chair whenever she passed the glass doors, but unable to settle on what to do about that or anything else.

The kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss, the kiss. He had deboned her, reduced her to nothing but softness without making her afraid. He had transfused her; her veins ran with some hotter fluid now that made her restless and dreamy.

She knew this might happen, if she let things go too far. From now on, Gaila would become known as the restrained one in South Axis apartment, while Nyota would be nothing but a walking hormone storm.  She tried to meditate. After forty minutes she gave up, lay down on her back beside her fire pot, hitched up her skirt and pretended her hands were his. Her orgasms made her weep. But only after that could she return to something like her former self. She could shower, change and take a more composed consciousness into her Cardassian exam.

Three hours later she returned to the apartment.  She called out for Gaila, before remembering that her roommate’s last invigilation would not have finished. It had stopped raining. So she took a tea towel from the kitchen and went out to the garden.

She was about to pick up their stool, then thought again.

She stepped up onto its seat instead, and leaned over the back fence to confirm that Spock’s kitchen chair was still standing on the other side. Rather than disturb him, she wondered if she could manage to bring his furniture inside also, dry it off and return it later.

But that was easier said than done. As she tried to decide the mechanics of her intended operation, she realised it would help if she were a few centimetres taller, and had vise grips on both feet so she could straddle her stool and keep it from wobbling.  She had to bend deep over the opposite side of the fence to reach the seat of Spock’s chair.

But the rain had made it slippery. She managed to lift it a short distance before she lost her hold and the stool fell.  It struck the fence panels twice before it landed sideways on Spock’s lawn.

“Shit!” she said under her breath.

She pushed her body upright with a grunt. Sheepishly, she stole a glance at Spock’s study doors, hoping in equal parts that he would be there and that he would not. Anything he did now might set off another bout of that strange fever he gave her with his mouth.

And then her breath caught. A Vulcan woman stood inside the study, watching her through the glass doors.

She must be the one, Nyota presumed. The bondmate who was not a bondmate.

For almost a minute, neither of them moved or took their eyes off each other. Nyota certainly wasn’t going to run away; she knew she had been welcome under Spock’s roof.  She gave his visitor a curt nod. The Vulcan reached forward and opened the study doors.  Nyota gauged that they were about the same height, as the other woman took a tentative step onto the damp lawn, and then made her way purposefully to the back fence.

“Identify yourself,” she demanded in Standard.

Nyota felt her nostrils flare.

“ _Identify yourself_ ,” she replied in High Vulcan. “ _I am not the stranger here_.”

She watched the visitor take a moment to reconsider the person with whom she spoke.

“ _I am Lelar_.”

“Uhura.”

They were hardly going to make small talk in Vulcan. Nyota pointed at the overturned chair and asked Lelar for her help to move it.

“ _It is yours?_ ” the Vulcan female asked.

“ _It belongs to Commander Spock, but we_ \--, “ Nyota backtracked, “ _my friend and I brought it outside to make it easier to climb over this fence_.”

“ _Easier_ ,” Lelar said softly, as if trying to work out how long they had been climbing the fence by some less convenient method.

“ _We put them out two days’ ago, when the Commander fell ill. He needed our assistance_.”

Lelar was silent, and Uhura wondered whether she was debating the trustworthiness of this explanation.

But what the Vulcan female eventually said was, “ _I cannot detect a flaw in your pronunciation_.”

Nyota would give credit where it was due. “ _T’Shin of clan Tetov’yth instructed me_.”

Did that name still have so much impact on Vulcan? Because Lelar’s eyes widened slightly, and then the lids dropped in a kind of deference. Spock’s visitor crouched down and picked up the fallen stool.

“ _I will take this inside_ ,” she said.

Uhura watched her go. She was still watching when Lelar turned round to close the study doors behind her, and their eyes met once more.

***

Gaila clamped her roommate in an iron embrace and dragged her round the lounge and kitchen.

“Youkissedyoukissedyoukissedyoukissedyoukissed!!”

Nyota made a noise between laughing and shouting about her earring, which had got caught in the Orion’s tunic.

“How long? How long?”

“Let me go first, Gaila.”

“You have to promise to tell me. Promise.”

“Gaila --,”

“Promise.”

“I promise, I promise.”

They both flopped sideways onto their sofa.

“Was he good?” Gaila begged to know.

Nyota grabbed one of the cushions and hid her face. “Lovely.”

“He’s crazy about you. You know that now.”

The cushion was nodding, nodding, nodding. Gaila got tired of looking at it. She wrestled it out of Uhura’s grip to discover she was crying.

“Those are happy tears, right?”

Nyota sobbed. “I don’t know.”

So they went back to hugging again.

“Cutie Bootie," Gaila tried to soothe her.  "I’ve explained everything, right? You know the whole story, exactly as I got it from him. He doesn’t want to marry her.”

“He doesn’t have a choice.”

“Are you going to accept that? Are you going to stay here on Earth, if there’s even the slimmest chance --,”

“No! But --,”

“No buts, Sweetie, please. You’ve got to try.”

“I just need to know…,” Nyota struggled to get her breath, “to be sure…,”

Gaila sighed.

“Okay, okay. While we’re here, you know, in our huddle, let’s also talk about your little ‘problem’.”

Gaila pulled her closer and started to rock gently.

“I haven’t said anything about this before, but I do have some connections. I mean family.  Well, sort of family.  Anyway, they also have connections, sort of, and they might be able to make some enquiries for me, discreetly, that might get us some information about Tiberious.”

***

The attendants had to lift T’Pau away from her place at the high altar. As they carried her across the sacred circle and over the footbridge, the eyes of the matriarch remained closed. She had swooned in the heat of the sun, and the intense concentration which had continued beyond midday, longer than any other meeting T’Pau had convened. They sat her in the Hall of Ancient Thought, in the great chair where she received visitors, and watched over the old woman until she regained consciousness.

When she revived, T’Pau agreed to take a little water. The first sips from the goblet strengthened her, and she removed the vessel from the hands which held it for her, and ordered everyone present to leave.

Her command was also meant for those who occupied her mind. The morning convocation had become too crowded.  Unexpected voices had used their bond with her, Lelar for the first time. But as a result the debate widened, and at times grew more heated than the starlight beating down upon the matriarch of clan Surak, putting in doubt whether logic governed the thinking on any side of the argument.

The moment was critical. No matter how many years had passed since the dissolution of the Vulcan High Command, and the reestablishment of Surak's teachings, it would never be safe to assume her people could not stray from the principles of logic. There were still rebels -- V’tosh Ka’tir and others -- whose impact on the Vulcan way of life might outlast her own.

While she still could, she must ensure that logic prevailed.


	13. Mount Seleya

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dearest Readers,  
> One week from today, I will receive my Open University materials for my course, which starts in October. I hope to get two more chapters completed (at least one of these will be properly X rated) -- after that it could get tricky. But I promise to keep you informed.

The Hall of Ancient Thought was like a soul made from rock.

The structure had been literally cut from the mountain. Every part of it was really one part, united by being composed of the same stone. Nyota wished she were free to reach out and touch these walls, look closely at the niches carved into them, row upon row of these going all the way up to the vaulted ceiling. Each niche contained a pyramidal capsule. Each capsule was inscribed on all sides with old Vulcan script, reminding her of the replica kir’shara that T’Shin kept in her meditation room.

Each capsule, she had learned, held the work of a Vulcan priest who had lived and died on Mount Seleya.

“Their legacy to us,” Lelar told Uhura, “a commentary on temple life, and their interpretations of Surak’s teachings.”

The two of them woke before dawn, and went to the Hall ahead of the starting time for devotions, to get a good place. But in true Vulcan fashion, early was late.  When they arrived the floor was almost full.  Almost – there was space at the front, a conspicuous spot just the right size for two women. And a number of those who occupied the room, all priests or priests in training, turned their heads to size up the not-late latecomers.

Lelar went forward elegantly and confidently. Nyota followed and hoped she gave the same impression.

Yesterday, after their freight vessel landed, one of the Vulcan sergeants who guarded the sacred summit came aboard to inspect the occupants and ask about the purpose for their visit. They were informed that Uhura was a friend named T'Li.  She would accompany Lelar and attend her a few days. Since Nyota's spoken Vulcan was good, only carefully shaved eyebrows and a secure sash were required to disguise her human identity.

Lelar completed the deception by showing her companion the kind of attention one would reserve for a friend. When they walked through the hall single file, the Vulcan glanced back twice, as if to be sure Uhura was still close. And when they reached the reserved space at the front, Lelar nodded to indicate she wanted her friend to sit before she did.  If Nyota didn’t know better, she would say the woman who had claimed to be Spock’s wife did not mind her company.

Ironically, Spock himself was not permitted inside the Hall or the sacred enclosure, except by appointment.  He was required to take his belongings to the monastery further down the mountain. So by agreeing to this journey, Uhura was also agreeing to spend a lot of time with Lelar.  She had prepared herself to tolerate this, but the reality was less demanding that she expected.

She was flattered that Lelar wanted to ask so many questions about T’Shin.

“I am fascinated that you knew her in person,” the Vulcan female explained. “She was a name we learned, a list of accomplishments we memorised, some words from our teachers.”

“You speak of her,” Nyota remarked, “as if she were now gone.”

“She was very old, T'Li. Older than T’Pau.”

Temple servants informed them that, a few days previously, T’Pau had suffered psi shock which left her weakened.  The elderly matriarch entered the Hall of Ancient Thought seated -- two sergeants carried her sedan chair to the front of all the assembled Vulcans and set her down less than a meter from Lelar and her friend.

When the sergeants had gone devotions began.

T’Pau lifted her head and turned it slowly, surveying all the niches in the walls.  Nyota watched T’Pau.  She could not do this without some reference to her guardian’s opinions, because T’Shin was blunt about things she did not admire.  She had often referred to the famous daughter of Surak as ‘that sehlat cub’, because T'Pau had not been born until 2122.  By that time, T’Shin had already established her reputation on Vulcan as a xenolinguist, and had completed the first twelve years of her Terran psi experiments.

Yet Nyota wondered whether T’Shin had ever witnessed the power of this cub’s mind.  When T’Pau closed her eyes and sank into trance, three of the pyramid capsules stored in the walls lit up.  They sent out rays of green light which crisscrossed overhead.  And for the duration of these illuminations, T’Pau spoke with three different voices.  It appeared she could channel the stored wisdom of her departed priests.

“What stays still is easy to hold," the elderly Vulcan recited.  "What is tender is easily torn. What is soft is easily melted. What is minute is easy to scatter.”

Lelar was rapt. Nyota took some interest in how the accent and dialect of each of T’Pau’s voices could pinpoint their place in Vulcan history.

“What is, in the end, to be shrunk must first be stretched. Whatever is to be weakened must begin by being made strong.”

The oldest voice was Surak himself.  Uhura recognised his maxims.

“What is necessary is never unwise.  Some emotions resist control because they are unaccustomed to restraint, and have mistaken themselves for necessity. Others resist because they communicate truth.”

But what began as stimulating gradually became harder work. After several dozen proverbs were recited, Nyota felt sure she was hearing the same things said in different ways. Hours passed. The outdoor light coming through the open doors of the Hall changed its relationship with the shadows cast on the floor, and Uhura felt her stomach grumble. T’Pau extinguished the three capsules she had chosen, and activated three more.

“The practice of logic consists of subtracting, day by day, subtracting a little of what was previously regarded as necessary. By this you will test and discover what truly is needed, as opposed to what is merely the perception of need.”

Perception of need it might be.  But Uhura did not know how much longer she could sit on the stone floor. She shifted a little, just to relieve the pressure on some of her bones, but that was enough to cause Lelar to glance in her direction.

“What logic plants cannot be plucked. What logic clasps, it cannot slip.”

Just as Nyota was thinking what a waste of good mind control this was, to have to distract herself from pain which could be avoided if they just took a break, the active capsules went dark. T’Pau let her head fall forward.  Her chin landed on her breastbone, and she stayed that way.

Nyota counted the matriarch’s breaths. When they had passed fifty, she decided she now had enough experience to agree with T'Shin, who once remarked that priests spent too much time at a distance from real life, which was counterproductive.

At that moment, T’Pau opened her eyes and looked directly at Lelar’s companion.

***

During the interval for private meditation, Lelar communicated telepathically by reaching for Uhura’s hand, so that they would not be overheard.

“It will not be necessary to stay with me during the afternoon devotion.”

“There is more of this?” Uhura was amazed.

Lelar ignored the question.

“I need your assistance," she said.  "T’Pau has linked with me.  She has agreed to an audience with myself and Spock sooner than we expected.”

Nyota shut away her emotions, and then wondered what good that would do, since the act of concealment said enough.  She agreed to cooperate. She expected Lelar to become less friendly. Instead the Vulcan sent a little gratitude across their touch.

“He already knows the time and place. Please tell him that his father has asked to be present, and can be transported to Mount Seleya if Spock will give his consent.”

Lelar took back her hand.  The remainder of the meditation interval became an anxiety interval, a time for Uhura to wonder if this was just a preliminary meeting, as Spock wanted, or if it had been decided to move faster, and go straight to a wedding.

Nyota tried to work through her sadness about this. Her chances had never been good, after all.  And it wasn't certain whether Gaila could deliver on her promise, to get some information about Tiberious, or what might happen if she did.

In fact, Nyota told herself, Lelar might be doing her a kindness by sending her on this errand. The temple was full of powerful telepaths, multiple servants. The only reason to ask Uhura to deliver a message face to face with Spock would be to give them one last chance to speak with each other before it was too late.

She had one crazy thought, that maybe the two of them could try to run away. They could steal a sehlat (she had seen tame ones carrying visitors up the mountain on their backs), and escape into the desert.  She had to resist the impulse to shake her head at herself.

***

Two hundred and twenty-six steps descended from the Hall of Ancient Thought to the monastery.  The path curved round the mountain, diving into a deep gorge along Seleya’s west facing slope, so that the temple vanished from sight behind her. Nyota had tucked her stylus into the fold of her belt band. She planned to present it to Spock as a gift. If the worst were to happen, and he would be bonded before the end of the day, she wanted to give him something of herself.

It was a poor substitute for the gift she wanted to give.

Steps two hundred and fifteen to two hundred and twenty-six became gradually wider.  The path cut deeper and deeper into the mountain, creating a broad cleft with enough area to support a building. But before reaching the monastery proper, there was a wall which barred the way and a stone gatehouse. A sergeant stepped out to greet her.

“I request an audience with S’chn T’gai Spock,” she said.

The sergeant beckoned her to follow him inside.  The gatehouse was a stark building, with little more than a bench for visitors, where she was asked to sit. She waited while the guard closed his eyes, presumably announcing her arrival by telepathy to someone inside the monastic compound. He nodded once, as if receiving instructions. Then he nodded again.

Without opening his eyes, the sergeant said, “You may proceed, Cadet Uhura.”

It ought to have been a warning, the fact he knew and used her human name. But what would she have done?  The guard could have easily overpowered her.  Instead he let her exit the gatehouse, walk across a courtyard of warm, swept stone until she reached the doors of the compound.  And when the doors themselves swung inward, she decided that Spock must have been involved with the telepathic interaction.  She quickened her step, hoping he might be the person on the other side of that entrance.

But she never found out who had opened those doors. As soon as she stepped into the shadowy interior of the building, she felt a hand come to rest at the base of her neck.

***

When she regained consciousness, her sash had been pulled over her face.  She was lying down, with something under her back that shifted regularly, so hard she could not resist the motion.  She lurched right and left, slamming into a hard sided obstruction no matter which way she went. She felt the heat of the Vulcan sun overhead.

Decisions -- she needed to steady herself first.

The next time she was thrown to one side she put out an arm and groped the surface until she discovered and caught an edge. Using that, she hauled herself up in stages, when she wasn’t trying to keep the motion from dislodging her. When she finally managed to sit up, a violent wind tore her sash off her head.  She watched it fly across the sands of an endless desert.

She needed a few seconds to register this new reality. The land all around her, for as far as she could see, was flat and covered only with sand.  The mountains were barely visible on the hazy horizon.  As for her present location, she was several meters off the ground, inside an open box and moving. She clawed her way along the side of the container and looked over the narrow end to see the massive shoulder blades of a sehlat. The beast had a heavy harness across its back, and was attached by reins to a second animal walking alongside. The other sehlat had a rider, covered from top of head to ankles with cloth, protection from the sand and sun.

Without questioning her judgement, Uhura cried out, “Spock!”

The rider turned to look her way, but the face was too obscured to be identified and she got no reply. She realised she had been stupid.  So she pulled the hood of her robe over her head and held it in place with one hand, while the other remained gripped on the box to keep herself upright.

She went back over everything she had said and done since she agreed to come to Vulcan. The gatehouse guard knew her real identity. Had Lelar betrayed her?  Had T'Pau perceived the truth, without needing to be told?  And then it occurred to her that knowing the answers to these questions hardly mattered, if she did not know where she was now or where she was being taken.

Logic brought her to one conclusion – since she had not already been killed, she was probably wanted alive.  And if she was wanted alive, she would be taken somewhere she could be kept alive.  Better then to save her energy, and wait until the rider got her to this destination. 

So she lay down in the box, and tried to sleep.

It didn’t seem that much time passed before her sehlat came to a halt. But it must have been later, because the sun was lower in the sky, the air less fiery. She heard the rider shouting, “Hav – Down. Down.” And she felt the beast underneath her drop.

“Hav – over.”

Before she could scramble up, the sehlat collapsed onto its left size and Nyota was spilled out of her box and onto the burning sand. It was powder fine, and caught in her throat. She was still coughing and spitting when the rider of the other sehlat approached her.

“Terran," he said, "I have been instructed to leave you here.”

She squinted up at him. He had loosened his head covering enough to show his face.

“Where is this?” she asked.

“This is not a named location, but merely a juncture of coordinates.”

Nyota looked round. There was still nothing but sand in every direction she checked.

“Am I being left to die?”

“I have been given no other instructions," the rider told her.

She saw no point being courteous.

“What have your damn instructions got to do with anything? You know what I am, and you can see where we are. Are you prepared to be responsible for my death?”

Oddly, the rider seemed taken aback. He reached into his robes and untied a small canteen from his belt. He held it out to her. When she reached up to take it, she made sure to touch his hand.

“Why were you asked to do this?” she asked telepathically.  She tried to search his mind for the answer, and he did not resist.  But this Vulcan was not high ranking -- he was just someone who took orders from a man who took orders from another man who took orders.  So she let him go.

“Thank you for the water,” she said.

She watched him rearrange his head covering and walk away.  He mounted his sehlat, and commanded the beast who had carried Nyota to get back on its feet.  He turned his small caravan one hundred eighty degrees to return the way it had come.  Uhura watched the trail of footprints get blown away almost as soon as the giant animals left them in the sand. She watched their figures grow smaller and smaller on the horizon.

When there was nothing more of them to watch, she watched the sand drift. Now and then, little cyclones rose up from the dunes. They made the air red and dusty, and through that haze she thought she saw something else. Perhaps the tops of mountains, or the peaks of tents, the fronds of trees …,

No, none of these.  They must be mirages.

Nyota decided to sit up straighter, fold her legs and close her eyes.  If she had been wrong, if she was going to die (what else could she conclude?), she would die as a Vulcan. She concentrated on her breathing, let her thoughts run their course until they realised their uselessness, the inevitability of their ending. And then she reached out, hoping there might be a way to reach the katra of her only Vulcan ancestor.  She thanked T’Shin for how well she had cared for and instructed her adopted daughter. She apologised for her mistakes. She asked if her katra might also be received into the company of others in clan Tetov’yth, when the time came. And then she waited.

For a long time, the wind was all she heard.  And then there came a voice.

She did not expect it to be male.

***

Everything was set, every arrangement made. The senior priestesses stood at their places near the altar; two sergeants were posted at the footbridge.

T’Pau sat in her chair in the centre of the sacred circle, folded her hands in her lap and waited for those who had been summoned.

Lelar arrived first, followed by Sarek.

Spock, the matriarch knew, had left the monastery.  The Prior and gatekeeper communicated the exact time of his departure. But to be early was a gesture of assent.  T'Pau did not expect to see Sarek’s half human son cross the footbridge until he was moments away from the temporal boundary between grudging obedience and rebellion.

All of which, she reflected, would be causing his father great distress. This, she believed, was the principle injustice. Sarek was too valuable to Vulcan and the Federation to be sacrificed by the High Council on the basis of their anti-Terran bias, nor should he be distracted with the mundane details of matchmaking. She would settle this matter once and for all.

As the sergeants began their ritual manoeuvres which would end with them barring access to the circle, T'Pau saw Spock emerge from the Hall of Ancient Thought. He strode over the footbridge and avoided collision with the guards by a narrow margin, as they moved to their final positions.

He did not raise his head to look towards those who waited for him.  And so when he did draw near, and finally lifted his eyes, he stopped short.

“ _Sa-mekh_?” he asked.

Sarek did not answer.  Spock's father linked with T'Pau and told her he was waiting for his son to remember protocol and address his matriarch first.  When that did not happen, T’Pau interceded.

“You may speak, Ambassador.”

“I had assumed I came with my son’s consent.”

“Your assumptions do not concern me," she said. "We must do what needs to be done.”

Spock began to protest.

“T’Pau, I do not believe we have agreed --,”

“ _Kroykah_!” she silenced him. “You came to me to seek a bond with Lelar.”

“I did not,” Spock replied.

Lelar interjected.  “ _Reldai_ , he agreed to my proposal.”

“I agreed to accompany you to Mount Seleya,” Spock corrected her, “I did not agree to a bond.”

“It was logical to assume you had agreed to the latter by agreeing to the former.”

Spock’s voice had gained a savage edge.

“Your assumptions do not concern me.”

“Spock …,” Ambassador Sarek began.

“ _Sa-mekh_ , I will not suffer another bond with a female who has no regard for me.”

“Then why,” T’Pau demanded, “why did you return to Vulcan?”

Spock addressed her like a subordinate. “As per the petition I sent you before my arrival, I came to make a request on behalf of Nyota Aminifu Halili Uhura.”

“The request has been granted.”

She saw the anxiety clearly in the face of Sarek’s son. Such a handicap.

“Spock,” she said, “it is said your Vulcan blood is thin. Are you Vulcan? Or are you human?”

“This is not a question about my biology.”

“It is not,” she agreed. “You came to Mount Seleya, the sacred place of your ancestors, yet you insulted tradition by smuggling an outsider into this temple. What is your real reason for bringing this human?”

“What have you done with her?”

“She has been taken to Eiktra T’Plak, to the junction of coordinates sixty-seven _mat’drih_ southwest of Chi-ri.”

“Why?”

“Spock,” Sarek cautioned, “lower your voice.”

Spock did not. “This location is not inhabited. It is not habitable.”

T’Pau dipped her head in acknowledgement. “It was the last known location of T’Shin.”

Spock stepped back, his balance and control wavering.

“This meeting,” he announced, “is over.”

“Only the high priestess may reopen this circle,” Lelar reminded him.

But the half human’s eyes were dark with violence.

“We shall see,” he said.

T’Pau had brave guards. But the sergeants were young, and their duties mainly ceremonial. They were not trained in suus mahna. Their injuries would be catalogued and added to the list of charges being compiled against the son of Sarek.


	14. Fish in a Desert Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All Vulcan vocabulary used in this chapter was taken from http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/  
> Many thanks to the webmasters for this helpful resource.

In addition to the voice, Nyota did not expect to hear the sound of an electric engine.

The noise started as a faint whine – difficult to distinguish from the wind at first, and even when she could Nyota denied what her ears were telling her. When the frequency changed, dropped a semitone and then dropped again, while the sound itself grew louder, Uhura had to believe the unbelievable, that some kind of vehicle was approaching and slowing down nearby.  She opened her eyes.

A hovercar, torpedo shaped and armoured with the solar panels that powered it, drew to a halt in front of her. Two of the side hatches sprang open. The pilot was a Vulcan with umber complexion and greying temples. He swung out of his cockpit.

“Nyota,” he came near, crouched and offered his hand. “Are you able to stand?”

She answered by trying. When she straightened up and tried to lift her head, it felt like a tissue paper bag filled with air.  The unknown Vulcan caught her before she could fall.

“Who are you?” she asked faintly.

As he lifted her off her faltering feet, he said, “You may call me Karimu.”

He carried her to the car and set her down in the seat behind his own.

“Karimu? Karimu is not a Vulcan name.”

He took the canteen from her hand, removed the lid, and asked her to drink from it.

“You should try to finish this water while I drive.”

She reached up and gripped the bottle obediently. Karimu climbed into the pilot seat and activated the hatches, which sealed out the exhausting heat. Nyota splashed a little water on her face as she felt the hovercar turn.

After a few more sips her head and her thoughts began to feel more substantial.

“Karimu is Swahili,” she said. “It means ‘noble’.”

“My mother wanted to call me Jasiri, after her father.”

“Wait,” Nyota shook her head, “am I still woozy? Why would a family of Vulcans give themselves Swahili names?”

“Ah,” Karimu explained, “if you were Vulcan, I would introduce myself as Tonev.”

That did not help. Nyota decided to change the subject.

“Where are we going?”

“You may activate the viewplate on the back of my seat,” he said.

She did, and it gave her the moving perspective from the nose of the hovercar. There was nothing before them but sand and sky.

“Maybe it’s too soon to see anything,” she said.

“No,” he replied, “keep watching.”

Dubious, she decided to tip back her head and drain the canteen of its last swallows. When she had put the lid back, and stowed the bottle in a pouch she found fitted to the armrest of her seat, she did glance at the viewplate and was amazed. Suddenly they were approaching a tight commune of dun coloured tents.  They were broad structures with canopies that peaked at their centres and gradually came down to the height of their walls. Three other hovercars were parked in the sand.  Nyota saw a robed figure standing outside the nearest dwelling, folding back part of the brown drapery to make an entrance.

Karimu steered his vehicle wide of this encampment and came back round, so that when he brought the car to a halt the hatches opened and at their fullest extension they gently brushed the opened tent flap.  A well-practised move, Uhura concluded.

The figure she had seen preparing their entrance had moved and stood just inside the tent, watching them.

“Kisima,” Karimu called as he climbed out of the cockpit, “sister, you may greet your _lo’uk ezyet_ – I believe that is the correct Terran expression.”

“Great aunt?” Nyota asked, “how am I her great aunt?”

Kisima came forward. “You are the sister of my grandmother, the daughter of my great-grandmother.”

Nyota pinched herself. Literally – she was edging toward a conviction that she had, in fact, died in the desert. Kisima noticed the gesture, and raised a curious Vulcan brow. They might have been sisters. Kisima looked the same age, was the same height and their skin colour was a perfect match.

“Is …,” Nyota steeled herself for the answer, “I mean, would it be possible to see your great-grandmother?”

Karimu was now giving her the same questioning look as Kisima.

“You linked with her, Nyota,” he said. “That is how we knew you had arrived. If you feel strong enough, she is asking to see you.”

The next minutes felt like a dream.

Not that Uhura had ever dreamed of this exotic setting.  The interior walls of the tents were lined with heavy draperies in shades of dark red, brown and ochre, and the floor was carpeted. Tapestries screened off sections of the larger tents for privacy. Karimu and Kisima led her through a space that looked communal, with scattered cushions, floor illuminations and small tables.

But she had dreamed about this reunion.

The communal space had a narrow passage connecting it to a smaller tent.  Kisima went along this corridor first, and folded back the curtain which served as a door. Then she stood aside and beckoned her great aunt to come inside.  Nyota ducked through the opening.

The chamber which received her on the other side was filled with memories.

The interior walls here were hung with blue fabrics – rich cobalt and turquoise and teal like the colours of Tanzanian sea and sky. Along the edges of the carpeted floor swam a single file parade of tropical fish.  They were the vivid figurines she and T’Shin used to see whenever they happened to visit the markets in Mwenge and walked past the wood carvers’ shops.  Nyota had acquired a collection of them, the way other children collected stuffed animals. Somewhere around puberty they had ceased to interest her.  T'Shin had put them in storage.

T’Shin herself was sitting up, in a bed built beneath and around her with cushions. In spite the heat she was clothed in heavy robes and covered with several blankets. Her face, still long and elegantly boned, was thinner, her dark brown eyes now cloudy. But she pulled her arms out from their covers and extended her hands towards Nyota.

“ _Ko-fu_ ,” she said in a papery voice.

Nyota had to navigate blind.  With tears blurring her vision, she crossed the few meters of carpet between the doorway and the bed. Control was out of the question. T’Shin’s cold, dry hands found her cheeks and guided her down onto the cushions beside her. Nyota caught and clenched the sleeves of her guardian’s robe, buried her face in the nearest blanket and sobbed like she was five years old again.

T’Shin kept one hand on her daughter’s meld points, the other on the back of her neck, smoothing Nyota’s hair. She expressed one regret immediately.

“We are able to obtain most things we require,” the Vulcan spoke with her mind to mind.  "But not paper tissues. My _yuk-sai_ is all I can offer.”

It was ages before Nyota could do much telepathically.  She could exchange with T’Shin the pain they had in common, the trauma of losing each other. All her other questions had to wait until she had cried the same volume of water she drank from the canteen, until she felt so depleted her body stopped doing everything except breathing.

“Also,” T’Shin spoke aloud this time, “we do not have chocolate cake.”

Nyota managed a weak smile. Mind to mind, she replied, “I lost my appetite that day, and did not want anything.”

“You should eat now,” T’Shin told her.

Nyota listened as her guardian made a telepathic request for food to be brought to her room.

“How many live with you?” Nyota asked.

“The number varies,” her guardian explained, “because it is not wise for anyone to stay with me permanently. “Right now there are eight, mostly from Karimu’s family.”

“Do all your family have Swahili names?” Nyota asked.

“Some. They do this for me, to sustain my hope -- my hope that I would see you again.”

“Does T’Pau know that you are here?”

Nyota felt her guardian’s anger. Not all of it, but enough for the rest to be understood.

“I am certain she could find me, if it became necessary.”

She anticipated Uhura's next question and answered it.

“She did arrange to have you brought to Eik’tra T’Plak.  I can see from your thoughts this was done with no consideration for your needs.”

“Why did she do that?”

“Because I asked her.”

T’Shin explained the regular ritual on Mount Seleya, the number of links T’Pau had with the powerful ones on Vulcan, as well as the ones who had displeased them.

“It is her attempt to maintain a balanced view.  I had never done more than listen, until a few days ago, when the high priestess addressed me directly.  Officially, I am considered to be dead.”

“Officially?” Nyota lifted her head off the blanket. “Shauri, what happened, when you left me?”

“I had been warned,” T’Shin admitted.

Her hands released her daughter so Nyota could sit up on the bed beside her.

“Warned more than once. When Ambassador Sarek visited us, for example.”

“That was a warning?”

“A dialogue.  All other members of my research team had either returned to Vulcan or died. The High Council wanted complete conformity, as they so often do. The Ambassador had tried to reason with them on my behalf--”

T’Shin paused.  She was doubtless able to identify the surprised expression on Nyota's face, but would have no way of understanding the reason for it, unless she asked. She decided to continue her explaination.

“He knew firsthand that a family bond with a Terran is no weaker than a family bond with a Vulcan. But this argument did not convince younger councillors, the ones who had been born after our Reformation. T’Pol was no longer alive to bear witness to the actions of Captain Jonathan Archer, the human assistance which made that great change possible. And T’Pau preferred not to be reminded that the katra of Surak lived happily inside his mind.  The preferences of those in power have their effect.”

Karimu and Kisima, who had left mother and daughter alone, entered again. Kisima brought a flask filled with _theris-masu_ and two cups; Karimu set down a tray with dried _kaasa_ and _pla-savas_ , _kreila_ and a small bowl of _balkras_.

Kisima said to Nyota, “ _Lo’uk ezyet_ , there is a tent prepared for you, when you need rest.”

Only after they had gone did T'Shin say, “It is possible you were the only reason I wasn’t taken away sooner. The Council, whatever they thought of my research, accepted that I was responsible for the welfare of a child. They waited until you reached the Tanzanian legal age of majority.”

“And I was away from home,” Uhura remembered, “in Morogoro staying with my cousins.”

“I was grateful that you did not witness what happened. It was like the worst days before the Reformation, when Vulcans committed covert acts of force against each other, or more precisely, contracted outsiders to commit those acts for them.”

“I want to know what happened.”

T’Shin laid her hand over the one Nyota had rested nearby on the blanket. “Not now. Tell me what I have missed, in the years we have been apart.”

When Nyota began to weep again, her guardian asked the question through their skin connection.

“What, _ko-fu_? What causes you this pain?”

T'Shin moved her hand to Nyota's meld points, and Uhura gave her mother full access to her memories.  T'Shin could witness the terrible mistake her daughter made on her seventeenth birthday, and how long and painfully she paid for that single lapse of judgement.  She relived Uhura's escape, with the help of Starfleet Africa, and the years her daughter spent on Spacedock under an assumed name, trying to put her life and career back on a rational footing.  She felt Nyota's hope, when she earned her first degree in Klingon, and felt ready to apply for the Academy.  And then, when Uhura was accepted, how Admiral Migiro intervened to secure a place at the American campus, where it was felt she could safely resume her true identity and study without distraction.

Throughout T’Shin reciprocated, by showing her grief and regret.

“You were still a child," she said, "in ways I did not appreciate.”

“For a while,” Nyota said, “I began to think that anyone I allowed to get close to me would eventually leave. I still …,”

She gave T’Shin recollections of her first year at the Academy, about Sato Hall and the stylus she dropped in XenoCulture class, about Messier 18 Cluster and Gaila, about the Dean’s Dinner.

“Sarek,” her guardian murmured as it became clear what he had done.

Nyota noticed that Sarek's name, when she said it telepathically, was communicated with many nuances of emotion.  She asked T’Shin to explain.

“Not yet,” Shauri said. “I would prefer to see more.”

So Nyota revealed her memory of the conversation with Spock in the villa chapel, and the stylus he left her. T’Shin gave her more than just nuances then. She was unmistakably delighted.

“Then my judgement was correct,” she told her daughter with a matching sense of satisfaction.

“Judgement?”

“When the Ambassador visited us, Spock was nine years old. It is normal to bond children in their seventh year, but negotiations to find a mate for Sarek’s son were protracted, because he could not find a family willing to give their daughter to a human hybrid. It took the influence of T’Pau to make an arrangement, but that was later. I suggested to the Ambassador that you would be a good match.”

“He did not agree?”

“He did agree,” T’Shin said. “But given the High Council’s hostility towards our respective interactions with humans, we both decided it was wiser not to aggravate them further.”

Then the older woman pursed her lips, and turned her face up to the canopy of her tent.

“Perhaps we ought to have been braver.”

Nyota added this to what she knew of Sarek, and the two sets of data did not compute.

“He was rude to me at the dinner,” she said, “beyond rude.”

“He was,” T’Shin agreed. “Though I suspect his manner, and his challenge, were meant to serve three purposes. Firstly, to discourage you from asking about me, and to show the High Council his loyalty.  Secondly, to satisfy his curiosity by testing your psi ability. You were remarkably strong, and that after years without training.”

When her guardian did not finish, Nyota asked, "What was the third purpose?”

“To see how Spock would react.”

Nyota squeezed Shauri’s fingers. “There’s more.” She shared her memories of the last three months, including the kiss.

“Then this is settled,” T’Shin said, “you should be his bondmate.”

“It may be too late,” Nyota replied, as she carried on revealing the events that brought her to Mount Seleya.

“Perhaps.”

“But even if he chooses not to bond with Lelar, that won't be enough.  That won’t change my situation.”

“Perhaps not.”

T’Shin distanced herself from their mental link for a short time.  When she returned, she had a memory ready.  But she warned Nyota that what she was about to reveal should not be shared while she remained alive.

“I have never shared it with anyone else,” the older woman added.

What came across their link shocked Nyota.  Because of this reaction, T’Shin took the decision to cut the revelation short. She waited for her daughter to say something.

Finally, Uhura swallowed.

“I did not think Vulcans ever ... you were bonded, and yet …?”

“You know the circumstances of my bond.  As a union it was … serviceable.  But never satisfying.”

“What about Sarek?”

“This happened long before you were born, and Sarek was married to his first wife.”

Nyota was still blinking with disbelief.  It was hard to come to terms with Vulcan adultery.

“I am using the memory to illustrate a point,” T'Shin said. “The best bonds are immune to attractions from outside.  But a weak bond is as good as no bond. If you want Spock, and Spock wants you, whatever contract or bond either of you have arranged with others will be irrelevant.”

“You sound just like Gaila.”

“I am simply telling you that, sooner or later, you will surrender to the truth that drives your want.  And as your guardian, I take responsibility for what happened to you after I was taken away.  I must do whatever I can to ensure that you are happy.”

T’Shin removed her hand carefully from Nyota's meld points.

“We have talked enough,” she insisted. “You must eat now, and get some rest.”

Shauri looked weary herself.  Nyota kissed her mother on the forehead, which the old Vulcan tolerated. Then she poured T’Shin a cup of tea, before she put the flask on her tray and carried that out of the sea blue tent.

In the adjoining room, Kisima was waiting. Nyota sat with her a while and they made conversation about the camp itself: the number of tents, where they got provisions (because the dried _kaasa_ was sweet and aromatic) and how long they planned to stay.  When Uhura had eaten sufficiently, Kisima led her to the central tent in the compound.  This was the place where food was stored and prepared.  And the youngest member of the household, Kisima’s five-month-old nephew, was fast asleep in a nest of cushions under a table.

“That is what you should be doing,” Kisima said.  Nyota agreed.

The tent they prepared for her was smaller than Shauri’s.  But more blue tapestries covered the walls and the floor provided a home for more of Nyota’s wooden fish.  A structure of rails, draped with what appeared to be pieces from a dismantled tent, screened off one corner.  The space within contained a shallow tub with several buckets full of precious water alongside.

“A bath," Kisima said, “because the sand has doubtless blown into your clothes and hair.  I will take your robes when you have undressed, and have them brushed clean.”

***

T’Shin finished her tea, then dozed.

Karimu/Tonev checked on her before he started his evening meditation. He remonstrated with her, because he had hoped she might eat some of the food they brought earlier. But she no longer had the appetite she once did. She told him Nyota’s story had been so absorbing, but that led him to fetch more fruit from the kitchen, and he left a bowl in her lap.

She picked out the _pla-savas_ , because they were small.

And she considered T’Pau, the sehlat cub, fierce in the face of opposition, fierce in her convictions. The great philosopher Surak lived during a time without space travel.  He had no knowledge of any people except his own, and therefore his writings had nothing to say about the dozens of humanoid species which Vulcans had since discovered.  Yet T’Pau did nothing to discourage a persistent and widespread belief that her ancestor somehow knew these life forms would be encountered, but chose not to speak about them because they were of so little consequence.

But it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain the popular view that intelligent life occupied a spectrum, with Vulcans at its most developed extreme. What troubled T’Pau and the High Council was that Sarek appeared closer to his human wife than he ever was to his Vulcan bondmate.  It unsettled them that Spock was a superlative intellect deserving the highest academic recognition his people could offer.  And they did not want to accept the fact that, from a small sample of test subjects, T’Shin had clearly established that psi ability could be developed in humans.

All of these facts undermined the myth of Vulcan superiority.

T’Shin considered this her duty to Surak, to keep his philosophy as pure as he intended. She believed his wisdom could benefit Terrans, Andorians, Cardassians or Xindi – anyone who wished to study the kir’shara.

Naturally, her devotion to duty had cost her and might well cost her again, as duty so often did.  For now, she still had T’Pau, one of the few with sympathy for those with unconventional views.  But when the day arrived that the matriarch of clan Surak died, the voices of opposition might cease to be heard on Mount Seleya.

She had not told Nyota this, but the other reason her family gave themselves Swahili names was to use them, should the day come when they were no longer welcome on Vulcan.

Kisima pulled back the curtain divider and interrupted her thoughts, told her Nyota was asleep. T’Shin asked for another blanket and a heating pad -- the desert nights were so much cooler this time of year. As she tried to work her way deeper into her insulating cushions, she heard another mind calling to hers. It was pleasant to hear his voice again.  Today was the day she received thoughts from those she had lost.

“Sarek,” she reached out to him, “what would you?”

She listened, all the while concealing her dismay and amusement. When he had finished telling her what had happened within the sacred circle and afterwards, she assured him of her help, and dismissed his apologies for burdening her with this responsibility when she should be spending time with her daughter.

When Kisima returned, T’Shin advised her not to interrupt Karimu, but to ask her sister Nyesha to run a scan of the desert in a sweep extending twenty _mat’drih_ in all directions, identify any life signs and prepare a hovercar to make another journey.


	15. Dance Over My Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last. Gratitude to all my readers -- hope this is good for you.

The curtain was the colour of ripe _kaasa_ , when the fruit under the skin turns a deep shade of red. Very likely the cloth was commissioned in Aba’Kur, from the specialist guild, or another group of craftsman who had learned the technique of double sided embroidery. The panel of drapery facing Spock had blue yarn fed in single threads through the weft of the red weave. From this close, no pattern could be discerned. But approaching it from the _af’tum_ in the central tent, Spock could see the outline, the same family sigil which had been engraved onto the nib of Uhura’s stylus.  If he were to take the hem of the curtain and lift it up, the colours on the other side would be reversed  – a red pattern on a blue ground.

But he was not comfortable doing that yet.

He had been standing outside this textile covered entrance to Uhura’s tent for seventeen point five _lirt’k --_  twenty four minutes and thirty seconds. Unlike every other Vulcan in this familial commune, he did not consider his journey across the desert to be anything other than what he had to do. He went, having no idea whether he would find Uhura or not, save her life or not.

T’Shin and her family, by contrast, came to meet him fully informed of things he could not guess and operating with confident expectations. His journey, to them, was akin to a marriage proposal. Tonev, great-grandson of T’Shin, addressed Spock as ‘ _tel-sasu_ ’ -- brother by bond -- before they were properly introduced. The matriarch herself would not listen to his explanations or offer him any other place to sleep. Moreover, he had been given Uhura’s robes, aired, brushed and folded in a tidy bundle, to take into her bedroom.

He did not object to their assumptions the way he had objected to those of Lelar and T’Pau. T’Shin had superior means of persuasion, and was less domineering though unquestionably dominant. She requested a link with him and gave him a glimpse of her daughter’s dreams.

“You see,” the old woman had to pause, unusually taxed by the effort and needing a few seconds to recover. “You walk inside her mind already.”

Admittedly, he was intrigued. Uhura was replaying the memory of their kisses with elements of setting and time altered.

“Notwithstanding, I would prefer to have her permission, before I intrude.”

“You have mine,” T’Shin insisted, “which is the same.”

And so here he stood. Every other family member had retired to their respective resting places.  He prevaricated.  He stood listening to the battle between those two familiar people inside him: the one who could not bear to break rules and believed he had broken too many already, versus the one who would do anything for her.

This monumental struggle took another eleven minutes, after which time the _kaasa_ red curtain was carefully pulled back. Spock let his eyes register everything he could see through the opening without moving forward. The bed, a mountain range of piled cushions, looked unoccupied, until he distinguished the round edges of the pillows from the curve of her shoulder. There was a small, low table at the foot of the bed, and some curious objects placed along the join between the carpet and the tent walls.

He put his head and shoulders through the opening. Nearer the wall on his right was a chest, and in that far corner a private space had been created by a partition made of tall poles, rails and more drapery. He saw the tub on the floor inside, and the washcloth folded over the rim.

He stepped through the entrance and turned so he could lower the curtain back into place noiselessly.

***

She heard Spock lift the curtain and lower it again. His voice had awakened her first.  But that was some time ago, when he first arrived at the compound.  Perhaps everyone assumed her human hearing could not pick up sound unless it came from an adjoining tent. She had been desperate to rush out and greet him, but Kisima had taken all her clothes.

T’Shin registered her frustration, and sent reassurance through their link that he would be sent to her.

But the wait made things worse. In the darkness, naked and sunk deep in cushions while the muffled sound of his voice carried … her imagination ran in circles, making and remaking his face and eyes and mouth in different expressions, considering how he might look in these shadows.

Now he was this close, and she had to hold herself, keep from calling out or squirming with excitement. It would make him uncomfortable. Probably, he just wanted to check that she was well and would not wish to disturb her sleep.

She listened to his first steps across the carpet.

He stopped before she thought he would, and she guessed that the rustle she heard was the sound of his robes as he bent or stooped. Then she heard his breath hitch slightly.  That was followed by two soft, consecutive slipping noises which both came to abrupt endings.  While she pondered this, she heard his clothing shift again. After that there was a minuscule noise, a metallic drag. She concentrated hard on the next one and the next and the regular intervals between them, and then her eyes opened wide.

Spock was undressing.  He had removed his boots and was opening the fastenings on the belt cinched round his inner robe.

Nyota dug her fingernails into one of her cushions, and bit her lip. He was setting the belt down gently on top of the chest, but could not entirely muffle the rattle of the buckles. Next, she was sure he shrugged off his outer robe, caught it behind his back and brought it round his side to face him. She wondered whether he folded it the way she had been taught, by pinching the shoulder seams and rolling the sleeves into the middle of the garment, folding the whole thing along the centre back and then folding it the other way to cut its length in half.

After that he took more steps, but they were moving him away from the bed, rather than near it. Was he curious about the wooden fish? Nyota heard more sounds like shifting fabric, and a creak. The latter, she guessed, was some joint in the bath partition taking a little stress. Spock would not be clumsy and lean against it in passing. She tried to imagine some other, more deliberate gesture.

All the while she pictured him on the outside of the bath, wearing his inner robe loose so the hem would drag on the carpet. Maybe the cloth had caught in the partition and pulled it. Except Nyota no longer heard textile sounds. She didn’t hear anything but his breathing. She altered her breaths to synchronise with his.

Then she heard a break on the surface of water, a gentle submersion and withdrawal, a cloth wrung and soft drops pattering on the carpet. And she had a fresh mental image, one that was undoing her.

She sat up.

“Spock.”

***

No longer caught between the opinions of his two selves, now he was caught between worlds.

On Vulcan everything to do with marrying and being married was highly private, but what needed to be discussed or arranged was done in a straightforward manner and took only the time that was necessary. Once an agreement was reached that two people should marry, the couple could behave as if already bonded. In truth, he was more comfortable with this than with Terran custom, which allowed public courtship but elongated the process and left the outcome uncertain.

Now he stood, washcloth clamped by one hand to the back of his neck, and looking down at the wet hairs flattened against his chest and groin and legs. The part of him which had lost the battle over whether or not to lift the entrance curtain regathered itself. It suggested that perhaps he had been swayed by his own cultural preference, letting the Vulcan authority of T’Shin lull him into behaviour that better suited him. But did T’Shin know, did she really know, what would make Uhura comfortable?

Yet, he could argue back, there was something in the way T'Shin's daughter spoke.  Her tone did not seem surprised, nor questioning. She said, "Spock," to get his attention, to request that he be ready for what she was about to say next.

He heard her climb out of bed. She did not hurry. When her feet landed on the carpet she stopped, pivoted, and he guessed from the noise that she had picked up an object from the table. Then she came closer, and he was not sure where she was until she asked, “What happened?”

He found it illogically relieving and disappointing to ascertain that she was standing somewhere to his left rather than behind him, where the partition was open.

“Please clarify,” he said.

“On Mount Seleya.”

He felt safe enough to move the washcloth, and clean behind his ears.

“I expect the High Council to arrest me at their earliest opportunity. If you are curious, I can list the charges for which I am now guilty.”

“You never intended to bond with Lelar.”

The sound of that name made his knuckles turn bloodless as they clenched the cloth. He made himself squat down and dip it in the bucket of clean water, squeeze it out over his head to rinse the desert dust from his hair.

“But you didn’t need to leave Earth to refuse her,” she said. “So the only reason you came to Vulcan, and put yourself through all this, was for me.”

As he stood, blinking away the excess water, he saw a dent appear in the thin partition curtain between them. Her index and middle fingers made it; he could tell that from the contour. The fingers started to move, which meant she might be moving. He watched the dent travel behind him and swallowed.

“What will the Council do?” she asked.

“There is no precedent in post-Reformation case law for the crimes I have committed.”

“Could they imprison you?”

“Possibly.”

She sighed. “I would never have asked you, if I had known --,”

“Cadet--,”

“Nyota.”

“I must ask you to explain --,"

“My first name is Nyota. You cannot stand here in the middle of the night, in my bedroom, using my bath, and call me Cadet Uhura.”

She was moving again. He listened to the soft pad of her feet until he did not need his ears to sense her, because his skin could feel her breath cooling his back. They were silent. It was a period of time like any other he could measure, but he did not.

“I was going to give you my stylus,” she whispered. “Something to remind you of me, after you were bonded, because I wouldn’t be able to see you again.”

His nerve endings jumped when the cold metal point of her writing implement touched him just below the hairline on the nape of his neck.  Uhura drew a slow line down the indentation to the right of his spine. Neural transmissions flew to his brain, so many signals setting off so many reactions.

“But I’m going to write my name instead,” she said, “so you know how to spell it.”

The stylus stopped at the base of his spine and then returned to the broader part of his back between his shoulders. As she traced each Standard alphabet character on his skin she named it.

“N…,”

Spock let out a breath he never realised he was holding.

“Y…,”

“Y,” he repeated, hoarsely.

“O…,”

She drew the circle so wide the stylus tickled him under the arms. Blood began pounding.

“T…,”

The washcloth landed on his feet.

“A.”

“Nyota,” he could hardly say it. The next thing to drop was the stylus. She pressed her open hands into his buttocks, and they continued speaking through their skin.

“ _If we do not know what will happen to you tomorrow_ ,” she said to him in Vulcan, “ _if your future is uncertain because of me, then I believe you should have the memory of something better than a kiss_.”

She was so pleased to sense that he was helpless with his own desire. The fingers of her right hand, like arachnid legs, stood up and began to walk over him, across the cheek of his _coi’a_ and around the curve of his hip. They appeared at the front of his body, and stopped to dance over his abdomen muscles where his heart throbbed.

Her body drew closer. One of her nipples grazed his arm. And then the fingers of her travelling hand skated down, passing his navel and encroaching on his pubic hair. She let one fingernail lazily scratch the taut skin just above an engorged _lok_.

And only when she had repeated this attention until his legs were shaking did she remove her hands, walk round to face him and kneel beside the tub. She took the washcloth off his feet and dipped it in one of the buckets. She lifted it streaming wet and slopped it across his stomach, down the inside of each thigh so he was soaked. Then she leaned forward, nestled her chin against his testicles and began to lick the drops of water from the underside of his penis.

The oddest sound came from his mouth. He didn’t know if he moaned or laughed or choked back a sob. He wanted to watch her, while at the same time his eyelids were obeying some compulsion to close themselves tight. His brain roared with noise, not thoughts. He heard himself panting and babbling her name like a mantra ‘nyotanyotanyotanyota’.

He felt her hands encircle his organ and hold it tightly yet not tightly, coaxing down more blood by clenching and dragging, clenching and dragging. He grabbed one of the partition poles for support as he was taken and swept away by a seismic wave and eruption.

***

Nyota had to let him go, stand as quickly as she could and grab him round the waist, because he swayed on his feet. She kissed his cheek, while his _lok_ still pulsed and sprayed milky _sa-nai-masu_ into the bath water. His eyes, lids half closed, were aimed at her but seemed to take a few seconds to register what they saw.

And then he let go of the partition pole.  He slipped that hand behind her neck and tilted his head to cover her lips with his. No more the chaste kisses he gave her in his apartment, but a wet, warm vacuum seal with his tongue breaking inside and reaching deep -- sex with mouths.

His emotions came at her like barrage fire: relief and happiness rained down on all sides of her consciousness while the fireworks of his orgasmic high whizzed and spun, never quite landing. She fired right back.  She admitted to the gradual accumulation of attraction from the first time they saw each other, and all the ways he met her, matched her, drew her. And in case that was not enough, she rolled her hips across his legs and pressed hard against him to pass on her own craving, an ache that grew out from her bones, to make the end result of the process clear.

Spock released her mouth but kept his face close. His eyes, full and dark and focussed, had an eager brightness.

“Nyota,” he said breathlessly. She laughed.

“You don’t need more practice saying it.”

But there was something deadly serious in his look. He took his hand away from her neck, reached down and removed her arms from around his waist.

“I would like to explore ways which might induce you to practice saying mine.”

He started to kiss her again. He plucked at her bottom lip with both his own, then planted a line of kisses directly underneath its swell. He wandered down to her jawline and kissed his way into her hair. Each touch tempted her. She resisted the irresistible until his teeth grazed her earlobe.

“Spock…,”

He lit up every spot he had touched; she felt she had a face full of stars. The short noise he made in reply to his name might have been amusement or self-satisfaction. He stayed close to her ear, breathed into her. She felt the gentlest touch of a fingertip on her throat which traced up and down her windpipe.

His mind had divided.   Half remained open and soft with affection, and half was concealed. It was not an impenetrable defence, more a symbolic barrier like the partition round the bath. Behind it, she could tell he was working.

“Spock.”

She put her hand over the one he had against her neck, pushed her fingers into the spaces between his and leaned against his flimsy mental defences. She wanted to know what he was hiding.

“A little longer,” he pleaded through their skin.

He gave her ear one more kiss, then dragged his open mouth down her throat to her shoulder. He found her clavicle bone, clamped it with his teeth and covered the length of it with tiny bites. Each one disrupted her breathing; each reaction he seized like a prize and took with him to his mind’s hiding place.

“Spooock…,” she whined, and her complaint was rewarded by another kiss, planted in the sternal notch at the bottom of her throat, where the tip of his tongue explored the little indentation that seemed designed for it. His head had pushed their hands away – hers now stood still in middair. His landed in the crevice between her upper arm and ribs. He drew it sideways, finding the swell of one breast with his thumb and relishing this pliant flesh. He nudged and released, nudged and released, then drew circles round her nipple, the cells of which would have screamed if they could.

“Spock!”

There was no doubting his response now. The murmur he made, which vibrated against her throat, brimmed with the pride of accomplishment. He lifted his head to study her face, note her stricken expression.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he instructed.

She complied.  He slipped one arm behind her shoulders and bent so he could put the other behind her knees. Then he lifted her off her feet. As he carried her from the bathing compartment, he made a confession.  He opened up the mental barrier and showed her something she did not know.

Apparently, the Academy library held a special reference section in their databases, one most students never found but only because they never needed to go looking. For those few who found themselves seeking or unintentionally achieving intimate connection with a different humanoid species, there was exhaustive information on anatomy and the peculiarities of arousal, including three dimensional interactive models.

“When did you …?” she asked.

He admitted, as he lowered her gently onto the bed cushions, that he left it late. Until they had shared those first kisses, he thought it presumptuous to consult the data, and he disliked the models. Even with personalisation settings, he wasn’t able to configure a human female who resembled her enough. So he had relied on his memory of the text and medical diagrams.

She pulled his head down to kiss him, and insist that none of that really needed to be hidden. He acknowledged there should be no shame in admitting he had studied the sexual needs of the woman he wanted. But Nyota felt a little anxiety slink out from behind his psi defences.

“You were concerned how I would evaluate your efforts?”

“Yes.”

She let go of his neck, adjusted her position on the bed so her breasts were the closest parts of her to his mouth. She spoke aloud, adding a tone of authority. “I see no reason to deduct marks from your work so far, _ashayam_.  Please proceed.”

She liked the hungry spark she kindled in his eyes. He dropped his head, divided his attention equally between both nipples and suckled her hard. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the ascent to her own peak of excitement, and fed off how much he fed off the electric charges that sizzled along the erogenous pathways from her breasts to converge further down. When she knew it was time, he knew it was time.

“Open your legs, Nyota.”

***

Chocolate -- to consume Nyota by mouth had an equivalent effect. He felt loose and untroubled by the emotions that now moved freely in his mind or by his blood, which seemed to have trebled in volume and strained every artery. It was her arousal, the pinprick reactions to each kiss, the stronger surges he could drink from her breasts, which left him lightheaded. And as he crawled backwards over the cushions, the entire bed seemed to be breathing, rising in time with her panting.

He found it difficult to focus on her _kotik_ , the twin pillows of flesh between her legs. But the blurred outline was no less beautiful.  He knew that his mouth was open and his lips pulled clear of his teeth in a grin. He rested his head against her inner thigh and watched as his right index finger and thumb sank into the fissure of her vulva and opened her.

She whimpered his name and called him beloved once more. He lifted his head and despite the giddiness, managed to insert two fingers from his other hand and use them to spread her own moisture over the exposed tip of her _ko-lok_. The electric reaction he set off within her communicated directly with his penis, where it was answered with a sympathetic response. Her cries moved into a higher register.

His level of intoxication began to interfere with his ability to recall what he had studied in the Academy data. But like everything else, this no longer concerned him. He fell back on older knowledge, what little he learned from his second pon farr. Her gland was simply a smaller version of his own, partly concealed. He touched her as he would be touched, finding her underside and using his finger for friction and pull. But he made sure to travel all the way round, and ride uncaring over her tip time and time again.

When she came he dropped his head and sucked her clitoris, while her pelvic floor bucked violently and she howled. And this kiss injected him with her most potent drug. It rewrote his reality. He was aware of every synapse on every nerve ending in both of them.  He knew every cell of skin stretched by his erect _lok_ , and felt capable of things he had never done before. He felt convinced he floated up from her _kotik_ and sailed in the air over her body. He saw her face as if they made love in daylight. Her hair, tangled and thrown across multiple cushions, had colours running through it.

It would have been no effort to stay there, or so he thought. But Nyota had her hands on his arms, and said, “Steady.”

He tried to tell her he was flying.  After three unsuccessful attempts she started to laugh.

“ _Ashayam_ , you need to come in to land.”  She put her hand round his _lok_ again, and coaxed him down into her _keshtan-ur_.

It was abruptly sobering to feel himself touch the threshold of her. In his mind’s eye, he pictured himself on Mount Seleya, walking across its ancient stone footbridge to step inside the sacred circle. Now he was home.


	16. Troubled Relations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Open University materials have arrived. I am trying to get some study done ahead of the course starting date (October 1st). That way, I might be able to keep writing. There is so much exciting stuff left -- I want to find out as much as you!

“Gaila,” Jim said, “we gotta talk.”

“Not now," Gaila replied, and pointed ahead to one of the derelict boardwalks.  "We're almost there."

“You told me you had the apartment to yourself for the entire midterm break--,”

“Whisper!”

He dropped his voice, but couldn’t see the point.

“Um, we are two days into that break.  I don’t seem to have received my invitation to sleep over.”

Gaila didn't answer.  She ducked, as if she needed to hide behind the heap of broken timber and concrete in front of them, debris that may have been a building once.  She peered out through an opening in the rubble.  Then she turned and gave him a signal, one she hadn't explained before. It must have meant something like ‘Wait there', because she scuttled round the ruins and dashed across to a very similar pile of construction remains a few meters distant.

Jim shivered. Leather jacket was the wrong choice.

From her new location, Gaila gave him another signal that definitely meant ‘you next’.

A leather jacket would have been fine if, when they got off the tram at North Beach, Gaila had agreed to let him buy her dinner at that Kerelan restaurant she was always talking about. Instead, for reasons she would not explain, they were wandering through these ruined dockyards as if they had a goddamn Terran archaeology project to research. Nobody should be doing research at that time of night.

When he caught up with her again, he told her as much.

“Not our best date, Gaila.”

“I’ve been busy,” she said, sneaking a look over a mound of old bricks at the way ahead. “Looks like we’re about to run out of cover.”

"We need cover?"

"Cover and extra numbers.  That's why I asked you to bring friends."

"Yeah well, Len beamed back to Georgia to see if his kids will still speak to him. Sulu and Brosomis were going to come, but they had another bust-up."

He didn't expect the Orion to be so uptight about it.

She huffed. "I don't know who else might be here."

Jim couldn't see anybody.

"We can handle them."

He also didn't expect Gaila to doubt him, but that was the look he got. Then she shoved her hands into her coat pockets and pulled them together. It made her mackintosh a tighter fit.

"Let's go," she said.

"Are you wearing anything under that?"

She continued to walk, and he followed.  They passed derelict buildings and more accumulations of rubble.  These became fewer and fewer -- finally there was nothing but dark, empty boardwalk.  They reached a rusted portal with faded lettering on the overhead banner which said Hyde St. Pier.

As they passed underneath it, Jim rapped his knuckles against one of the aged girders. "I thought there were plans to rebuild Fisherman's Wharf."

"Quiet," Gaila said.

Admittedly, once they crossed that historic threshold the other side seemed darker. Up ahead, Jim could just make out the shape of a boat: a grimy, wide berthed vessel that could not have sailed since the Third World War. Its hull gaped open at the end of the pier. And that's where they seemed to be headed, for the interior of that black hole.

He didn’t need to be told to whisper now.

“You know I don’t normally pry, but what are we going to see?”

“Not what,” Gaila said, “who.”

The stern of the boat had its loading ramp down, but the rust had seized its joints and the footplate no longer rested level on the dock.  Their feet made clanking sounds they could not muffle and the metal groaned when they stepped on board.  Once they were inside the vessel, the city lights, moon and stars were lost and darkness became complete.  Jim put out an arm and found Gaila’s shoulder.

“Any second now,” she murmured.

A single light switched on over their heads. Its position was unclear, until a second, third and fourth appeared and Jim could see they were fittings in the ceiling of this space, an empty cargo hold. The lights drew a line which suggested they should head in the direction of double doors about ten meters away. Gaila started walking without hesitation.  Jim lagged by a second or two, checking the shadows at the edge of every pool of light on the floor.

“Wait,” he told her, when she was about to reach the exit.

He came alongside, moved her away and gave the entrance a kick so hard it sent both doors crashing against the walls on the other side.

“Jim,” she said, “he is a friend.”

“He?”

Gaila rolled her eyes as the doors swung back and slammed shut.  She opened them again, calmly, and held them so that Jim could come inside.

They were now standing at the foot of a dark staircase.  A minute later they were still standing there.  And another minute.  Jim bounced on the balls of his feet, fisted his hands, looked at the damp patches on the ceiling and at Gaila, who sighed and kept her gaze straight ahead.

Then he heard footsteps. The volume and quality of the echo told Jim that the owner of those feet descended from a much higher level of the ship. The weight told him they probably supported a body taller than his. The speed told him this was an individual with little time to waste. Finally, a light came on three flights up to reveal a silhouette on the landing: male, bald, heavy shouldered and wearing what looked like a metal collar round his thick neck.

“Jadillu,” a deep voice boomed as the silhouette pounded down the steps. In the dim light Jim saw two cheek piercings, and the bolts on a scalp plate.

“Ngazol,” Gaila called back, “you sexy beast.”

“Eh?” Jim nudged her.

“Gotta keep it formal,” she explained.

“You know I’m not the jealous type,” he said, as Ngazol reached the last flight of stairs. “But I’m just saying, if you’re with me, you’re with me.”

The Orion male named Ngazol reached the bottom and stopped in front of Gaila.  He folded his massive arms and looked as though he considered their conversation over already.

“Jadillu," he said, "we are talking because I owe your harem a debt.”

Gaila reached out and ran a fingernail over one of Ngazol’s bulging biceps.  Jim cleared his throat, but nobody noticed.

“Meatball,” she crooned, “please have a look at this.”

With the other hand, Gaila pulled a PADD from her coat pocket and showed Ngazol the display. “Recognise this man?”

The sewn up expression on the Orion male's face lost a few stitches.

“Jadillu …,”

“His name is --,”

“One of his names,” Ngazol corrected her. “It doesn’t matter which one you have learned. All of them are aliases.”

Gaila kissed the muscle she had been caressing.

“I knew you were a sweetie.”

“Look,” Jim leaned into the conversation, “about these Orion formalities --,”

“The harem told me I’d be impressed,” Gaila carried on as if no one else had spoken. “But could you find out where he is? What he’s doing?”

As best Jim could tell, Ngazol growled.

“Jadillu, it would be wiser to ask _what_ he is.”

“Why?" Gaila pointed at the display.  "He looks human.”

Ngazol shrugged.

“No one is sure. No one dares to get that close.”

Then he glanced at Gaila’s PADD again, and frowned.

“And yet he married," the big Orion grunted. “Humph.  Pity the wife.”

Gaila used the corner of her tablet to poke one of Ngazol’s massive pectorals. “Lover boy, we really need intelligence.”

“It will cost you.”

“More than you owe us?”

The Orion male considered his next words.

“Everything depends on the danger.  That may require a premium.”

Gaila loosened the belt of her raincoat and opened up the neckline.

“Hey!”

Once he was wedged between the two of them, Jim folded back the lapels of the coat so they covered the cleavage Gaila had exposed.

“Jim!”

“Gaila, could we draw a line somewhere? You may be Orion, but --,”

“Jadillu,” Ngazol’s voiced boomed, “this is not my spare time.”

“Don’t you worry, Wonder Pecs,” Gaila said in a soothing voice, before she took the hand Jim used to hold her coat and pleaded with him.

“This is business, sweetie. Like the difference between grabbing a terrible replicated sandwich from the Academy dining hall so your stomach won’t growl in lectures, and booking a table for two at Sreedharan, which I promise we will do just as soon as I’ve finished this.”

“Finished wha--,” Jim twisted his face in disgust. “You’re asking me to let you make love to him?”

Gaila waggled her finger at him like this was a lesson he should have learned by now.

“Making love is what we do.  I’m just asking you to wait here while Ngazol and I process a payment.”

“No way.” Jim pulled his hand away, planted his feet and crossed his arms.

“Jadillu,” Ngazol advised, “never bring your pets to serious negotiations.”

Jim turned on the big Orion. “Did you just call me her--,”

Gaila grabbed him by the shoulder, swung him back round and pegged his mouth shut with her fingers.

“Tenderloin," she said sweetly to Ngazol, "Please don't mind him.  He's young, and sometimes forgets his _training_.”

She stressed the last word while looking Jim straight in the eye. He slapped her stifling hand away.

“If you do this,” he warned her, “you’re on your own.”

“No, no, Jim, please--,”

Gaila tried to grab his coat sleeve as he stepped away, but he shrugged the jacket off his shoulders and left her holding it. Then he kicked open one of the doors and started back the way they came.

Over the sound of his boots clanking on metal and echoing off the walls of the hull, he could just hear the two Orions exchange unhappy sounding words. He was so mad he didn’t feel the cold any longer.

He had put the boat far behind him before he heard her call his name. He nearly ignored it.  He carried on walking, thumped an angry fist on the girder as he passed, fuming, under the Hyde St. Pier banner.  He bruised his own knuckles.

Gaila called him again.  Maybe he was learning something from the Xenocultural classes after all, because he did slow down.  Eventually he stopped at one of the railings and leaned over to stare at the dark water. He waited for her to catch up, and actually thought about apologising. After all, she wasn’t doing anything wrong, not by her understanding of the concept. And saying sorry could have benefits. If he got the tone and the words just right, Gaila might show him what she wasn’t wearing under her raincoat.

“Jim!” she called him one last time as she caught the back of his t-shirt. He turned to see her: hair wild, eyes alight, panting. The raincoat was open right down to her pretty green bellybutton. He needed to think of some terms of endearment, and fast.

But before he could say anything, the Orion threw his leather jacket over the railing, and then used her free hand to punch him in the face.

***

Spock woke with a clear head, and a wooden fish clasped in both his hands.

He brought the carving up to his eye level to examine it more closely.  It had been painted to resemble one of many colourful species native to the Indian Ocean; this one had yellow and turquoise bands along its body, while its head was a darker shade of blue. Its mouth puckered. Nyota told him most Terran fish had these distended lips, and as a child she often kissed her figurines because that’s what a human would be requesting if they made the same expression.

He recalled that he had kissed this fish, several times.

He recalled everything. The effects of imbibing Nyota were many, but these did not include loss of memory.

After his fourth taste of her _ko-lok_ , he remembered listing to one side and landing on his back. This position was not so much the one he chose as the only one he was capable of choosing. The lightness he felt, when he first laid her on the bed and tasted her nipples, was replaced with a sensation of extraordinary gravity which made his body heavy and his limbs difficult to move. He did his best, tried to fondle her breasts as she straddled and rode him to his final orgasm, but somehow he never made contact.

By that point in their coupling, the bed had broken up under the strain of their shifting and grappling bodies. They were left with a single layer of cushions, and had wrestled their way to one side of the tent near the wall. When his head became too heavy for his neck and rolled to one side, he spotted the parade of fish. He tried to choose one, but his hand seemed to lose strength and flop uselessly against the carpet.  Nyota picked one and put it in his palm, closed his fingers round it and helped him lift the figurine.  While she did this she told him the reason these Earth objects were now in the middle of a Vulcan desert.

A peculiar emotion seized him as she described how attached she had been to these ornaments.  She had given them all names, and wished them all goodnight before she went to sleep each night. She admitted this was a childish phase which she outgrew. Perversely, as he listened, he was flooded with a pure, unguarded sensation of affection, like nothing he could remember since he had been a child. He wanted to love, just love, and if she had loved these carvings then he would love them.

And if their mouths were asking to be kissed ….

Spock sat up. He put the fish back in its original place against the tent wall. Then he surveyed the room, in particular the archipelago of cushions scattered over the blue carpet. Nyota wasn’t sleeping on any of them.  She was not bathing. Her folded robes were missing from the top of the chest.

He stood. The twinge in his abdominal muscles reminded him of words he had said or tried to say in the combined grip of narcotic ecstasy and arousal -- fragments of poetry incorrectly recited, needless repetitions of her name or adjectives to describe the quality of their coital embrace.

She had laughed.  Through the telepathy of touch, he never perceived that she did so because she thought him foolish.  But there was no other logical conclusion.

He washed and dried himself, got dressed. Restoring the bed required greater attention, and distracted him from the confusion and shame of continued recall. He did not know why he lost control. He had never heard of a human or a Vulcan who experienced these symptoms during sexual intercourse.  And while it was one thing for Nyota to indulge him once, it was quite another to expect her to tolerate the continued attentions of an incapacitated, babbling lover.

It might explain why she was no longer in the tent.

So he came out of her bedroom pensive and subdued. He was not surprised when he met Tonev, also called Karimu, in the communal kitchen.  Spock judged his stance and expression to be indicative of a similar state of mind.  And so he stopped and waited, to face whatever this member of Nyota's family had to say.

“ _Tel-sasu_ ,” Tonev said, “I have bad news.”

Spock clasped his hands behind his back, stiffened his shoulders.

“Between the fifth and sixth _v’hral_ this morning, my great-grandmother died.”

Spock’s response was automatic. “ _S’ti th’laktra_.”

Inside, he was processing the implications of this new reality.  The other Vulcan bowed his head.

“Thank you for your condolences. We are fortunate, because she died with several family members in attendance. Her _katra_ remains with us.”

With a brief gesture, Tonev indicated the set table, where there were leftovers from a meal of bread and pickled salad.

“Please overlook our lack of courtesy. My brother-in-law and I have eaten already, because we must prepare the grave.”

“My own lack of courtesy--,” Spock began. But Tonev carried on speaking.

“Nyota wanted you to know that she chooses to remain at her mother’s bedside and meditate.”

Then the great-grandson of T’Shin bowed once and quickly left the tent.  Spock listened to him walk away.  After that he stared at the carpet for five point seven _lirt’k_ , without thoughts, observing a small arachnid creep from one leg of the table to another. He pulled out a bench, sat down, poured himself cup of water from a pitcher.  But he stared at that instead of drinking.

There did not seem to be a thought or action appropriate to the circumstances. In the face of such great loss, it was certainly not right that he continued to concern himself with speculations about how he was regarded by the rest of the household. He should not surrender to a suspicion that his standing within the family of T’Shin had diminished. But Tonev had been abrupt, clearly unwilling to let their conversation touch on the reason Spock had slept so late. And Nyota had not tried to wake him.

In the end the only remedy was to copy her. He chose a spot just inside the passage leading to her tent, settled on the floor and breathed himself into trance.

But he was brought back to the problem by the sound of Nyota’s voice one _v'ral_ later, flat and hoarse.

“Spock.”

She let him open his eyes, but spoke before he was sufficiently present to look at her.

"Everything is ready for the burial. Once that is done, you will be taken to Shi’Kahr.”


	17. Kae-Kwul

To Nyota, the voice of T'Shin had always been present.  As a child she heard it in person.  But even after T'Shin went missing, her voice lived inside Uhura, speaking in memories and being the sound of her conscience.  In these ways, daughter maintained a dialogue with mother, and Nyota felt she was guided as T’Shin would have directed, had her Vulcan guardian been present.

Today that had changed.

It was a long bedside vigil.  After that, the necessary rituals were performed, to capture and rehome the soul of the family's matriarch.  Nyota tried to stand up throughout but could not make it.  Kisima and Karimu caught her before she fell.  They carried her to a corner of the tent, and took cushions from the bed T'Shin no longer required. They built up a bolster to support Uhura, and Kisima stayed with her.  They talked about death and the Vulcan understanding of consciousness, though Kisima seemed more concerned that Nyota take water and try to make up for the sleep they all lost when T'Shin reached out with her mind and called them to her tent.

But sleep, at best, came and went.  Nyota’s brain turned over and over and over, and it seemed as though she watched it from the sidelines.  She heard the sound of Karimu and Mosi outside, digging up the sand.  She listened for any sound from Spock.  When she tried to take back her own thoughts, and imagine how he would react when he heard about the death, her brain seemed too quick for her.  It evaded her grasp, went on working faster than she could follow.  It carried on, even as she felt herself dozing off.

When she finally did see the Commander, it was as though she suffered the morning after symptoms of his intoxication.  Her head felt thick and her throat dry, and the words she said sounded odd, as if she were not the one speaking them.

Frankly, it hurt to talk.  So when they left the tents, and while they stood in the late morning sun to witness the burial, Nyota remained silent. The grave was marked with slates Mosi had cut from the slopes of Mount Seleya himself and kept ready.  As they filed back inside, she gave Karimu the briefest instruction to make ready the largest of their hovercars, and asked Kisima for a sash she might borrow to replace the one she had lost.

She spent a few quiet minutes in her bedroom, and admired how thoroughly Spock had restored order to the havok they had wrought with the cushions.  He did not follow her inside.   

The largest hovercar allowed two passengers to sit side by side behind the pilot.  Nyota climbed in first, slowly, and cared little where her body landed so long as her head could be supported by the backrest as soon as possible.

Spock, by contrast, took pains to keep space between them.  He held his back straight, concealed his hands on his lap within the folds of his robes. He glanced at her once.  But he avoided any returned eye contact.  Nyota wished she could read his mind without touching him.  She must look dreadful and appear distant.  In truth she felt broken up in pieces.  And she was only allowed to occupy a corner of herself; her brain had been sub-let.  It drove itself like a factory, mass producing tightly packaged thoughts that it stockpiled, preparing for some unspecified demand. 

Though it hardly required telepathy to be certain Spock was concerned about his fate.  He had not questioned her decision to take him to the Vulcan capital.  When she disturbed his meditation outside their bedroom door, she fought with her own brain for access to its mechanisms, so that she could ask for and process his opinion. He said her choice of action was logical.

“There is nothing to be gained,” he told her, “by waiting for the High Council to disrupt the holographic camouflage which conceals this encampment and find me. Nor is there any advantage to evading arrest by other means.” 

She agreed, or some part of her did.  Her emotions, also evicted from her brain, huddled round her like refugees and begged her to try for whatever contact she could achieve with him.  Spock did not deserve the treatment he was getting from the Vulcan government.  And he should not face his accusers alone; he must know he had her support.

Yet something as simple as extending her arm had become as difficult as scaling a mountain.  Her nerve endings received only intermittent signals, and these translated into halting movements.  She must be giving the impression that she could not make up her mind whether to touch him or not.  Which she could not – she could not have her own mind, could not seem to halt this process of transformation which had begun within her, not even for a few moments. 

She managed to drop her hand on Spock’s knee.   He looked down at her upturned palm, confused.  Then he searched for clues in her face before his own fingers ventured from hiding and hovered close.  She wanted to tell him her psi ability was weak, no better than a whisper.  She wanted to tell him he would need to get closer.  But she was so, so tired.  By the time his skin made contact, she was losing consciousness.  Did she make sense?  She only wanted him to understand how wonderful it had been, when they were naked in body and heart, when he couldn’t have enough of her, and even fell in love with her fish. 

*** 

When the process was complete, there was not much time left.  Tonev/Karimu was preparing the hovercar to make its descent.  They were one hundred and seven meters above the city. 

Nyota opened her eyes, and lifted her head from where it had fallen against Spock’s shoulder.  She sat up to activate the viewplate and study the position of the star in their sky.   She sent out a brief psi contact to Shi'Kahr, to someone who waited there for her message, and she received a response. 

“Council are in extended session,” she remarked.

Spock glanced at her, but did not comment.  He might have guessed the truth.  Or he might have concluded that she wasn’t entirely awake.  Karimu steered the hovercraft between the towering buildings of the Vulcan capital, and stopped it expertly on the landing platform outside the entrance to hall of Government.  When the hatches were opened, Nyota started to check whether her sash was in place. 

Spock interrupted her adjustments by placing his hand over hers.  His emotions were concealed.

“It would be better for you to wait here.” 

Of the two souls which now occupied Nyota's body, neither would normally agree to any such thing.  But there was a tactical advantage.  So she smiled at him as if grateful for his consideration, and sat back in her seat.  She watched him step out of the hovercar, climb the steps of the hall, salute the sergeant on duty at the doors and go inside. 

“Grandmother?”

Karimu turned his pilot’s chair to face her.  “Was it not your intention to help him?”

Nyota looked at Tonev with all the knowledge she now had about him.  He wanted to know whether she would fight for him and others, as much she would for Spock.

She replied, “A secret weapon should remain concealed as long as possible.” 

So he closed the hatches and they waited.  Nyota ate pockets of filled bread which had been prepared for her, and received intelligence from inside the building, as often as her sources were able to communicate.  By these she kept her great-grandson updated.

After forty-seven minutes the viewplate showed a second hovercar approaching the platform from the south of the city.  It was an impressive vehicle, with a two pilot cockpit and humpbacked body design which would allow several passengers to stand or sit.  The nose cone and hatches had been painted with diplomatic insignia. 

When these hatches opened, Nyota saw a woman she last spoke with decades ago, and had also never met.

Dr. Amanda Grayson stepped out onto the platform.  She drew the hood of her robe over her head, and in the time that took, Uhura received the most astonishing revelation from the katra of T’Shin.

This was Spock's mother?

The resulting excitement of her curiosity, combined with her guardian's sense of strategy, were making it difficult to remain where she was.  She said as much to Karimu, as Amanda was climbing the steps to the hall.

So he opened the car again and let her go. 

***

“Outsiders are not permitted to witness special sessions of Council,” the sergeant informed her. 

“I am the wife of Councillor Sarek,” Amanda tried to be gracious.  “And the mother of Spock, who asked me to be brought here.” 

“Spock stands trial for crimes committed against Vulcan, crimes against T’Pau herself.” 

“He is permitted support from his family,” Amanda insisted, “guilty or innocent.” 

“He is not permitted support from Terrans,” the sergeant clarified. 

She had faced all sorts of comments over the years she had lived on Vulcan: barely concealed insults, brush offs, dismissals of her intellect, integrity and intuition.  It amazed her that the variations never ran out, that she never heard the same slight twice.  It was time to stand her ground again. 

But before she could, a voice behind her said, “When did the bonds of family lose their meaning?”

Amanda turned.  A woman with sable complexion and blazing eyes stepped past her and faced down the sergeant.

“Recite the maxim from the Kir’shara," this new arrival commanded him, "from the eighteenth section, the forty-seventh stanza.” 

“Who are you?” the sergeant asked. 

“Recite,” she repeated.

Her voice, full of years and unquestioned authority, came from a young face.  You could see the guard trying to make sense of it.  Something made him decide to cooperate. 

“Blood,” the sergeant began.

Did he pause to question why was obeying her?

“Blood is the bond which reminds us that we all have blood," he continued.  "And reminds us that there is blood we would not have shed.  Abuse of a bond is the origin of all abuse.” 

“Now let the defendant’s mother inside.”

The guard, more loyal to instructions other than the teachings of Surak, replied, “I cannot allow it.” 

The stranger sighed.  She put her hands under her chin, loosened her sash, and removed it from her head. 

“You are Terran also,” the guard said.  Amanda’s eyes opened wide.

The stranger stepped forward, putting herself millimetres from the sergeant’s body.

“I am something you have never encountered.”

And then she reached up, curled her hand over his neck and gave him an expert nerve pinch.

Amanda sidestepped to avoid the body as it listed and collapsed in the doorway.  Unconcerned, the stranger stepped over the unconscious sergeant.  But before she went further, she turned and said to Sarek’s wife, “Follow me.” 

Intrigued, Amanda removed her own hood to expose her human ears, and did what she was told. 

When they entered the assembly chamber, Spock was standing so that he faced the ranks of lofty benches where the Councillors presided.  Sarek kept his place among them, albeit tenuously.  T’Pau observed proceedings from her sedan chair at the back of the room.  The elderly matriarch remained an imposing figure, even though her body had grown frailer since she and Amanda last met.  Lelar, Savid's widow, occupied the middle of the floor, in the place designated for witnesses to testify. 

“…it is true I met the accused without his parents’ foreknowledge.  I was inclined to come to an agreement with Spock as quickly as possible.” 

The unexpected arrival of two human women disrupted proceedings.  All heads turned in their direction.  Amanda made sure her face was set, and deliberately met the gaze of each councillor as well as the matriarch.  But she could not capture her son's attention.  His eyes were fixed on Amanda's companion, the female who had overpowered the guard. 

“Nyota …,” 

His voice had a tremor.  T’Pau leaned forward in her chair, and Lelar lifted an eyebrow sufficiently for Amanda to wonder if everyone in the chamber knew this young woman except herself.  And yet the name Spock used had a familiar ring.  Amanda tried to remember where she had heard it before, while Nyota went forward calmly and stood between Spock and the testifying witness. 

“Continue speaking,” Nyota commanded Lelar.   

A voice from the high benches said, “Outsiders have no authority to direct these proceedings or to be present in this --,” 

“Councillor Lurruk V’Lanev, son of Vodan” Nyota addressed him, “please do not base your judgement on appearances.  You are not dealing with an outsider.” 

A silence followed, which T’Pau broke.

“She speaks the truth, Councillor.  Lelar, continue.” 

Savid’s widow scrutinised the human a few moments before she carried on.  “Spock agreed to accompany me to Mount Seleya and petition T’Pau to marry us.” 

Nyota did not conceal her anger when she contested Lelar's claim.  It altered the quality of her voice.

“He can barely tolerate the mention of your name.” 

Amanda bit back the smile which threatened to show on her face.  Was this Spock’s _saintpaulias ionantha_ , the African flower he told her he was cultivating? 

“Councillors,” Lelar said, “this female is the human Spock asked me to smuggle into the temple.  It was a condition of his agreement.  I knew this was illegal, and consulted with T’Pau while I was still on Earth.  She advised me to cooperate with his deception.” 

“Spock,” Councillor V’Lanev asked, “what did you intend to achieve by your actions?” 

“The intention was mine,” Nyota interjected.  And she turned, so that she faced the benches.

“I asked Spock to bring me.  I wanted him to invoke _kal-i-fee_ , and force Lelar to fight me for possession of him.” 

So many Vulcan eyebrows rose simultaneously – that was the audacity of her claim.  Though Amanda noticed Sarek's expression did not alter, not in the slightest.  Her son looked like he could not believe what he had just heard. 

“Nyota ...,” he seemed on the verge of pleading. 

Nyota continued to testify.

“I believe Lelar and T’Pau agreed to cooperate so they might eliminate me as a challenger.  I believe they arranged to have me taken by force to Eiktra T’Plak, and left in the desert without means to survive.” 

“Such an action would be unnecessary,” Councillor V’Lanev countered.  “You claim you would fight Lelar.  No human could prevail in hand-to-hand combat with a Vulcan.” 

“Not physical combat,” Nyota said.  “Spock would have requested _kae-kwul_ – a mind battle.”

Spock and Sarek made the briefest eye contact while V’Lanev leaned forward to answer this bold human.

“ _Kae-Kwul_ between a Terran and Vulcan,” he said, “would lead to a quicker result, but not a different one.” 

“I am willing to show the Council this is not the case.” 

Amanda watched the two of them, her husband and her son.  Uneasy was the kindest way to describe their relationship since Spock left Vulcan.  There were so many issues they could not discuss without disagreement.  When was the last time she had seen them like this, eyes locked, like they were properly connecting with each other? 

“Spock,” V’Lanev continued, “you must confirm.  Do you invoke this challenge?” 

Whatever Sarek was communicating to Spock through their bond, it was not relieving his mind.  Understandable – all challenges were battles to the death.  _Kae-kwul_ did not always kill, but it could do so much damage there was virtually no life left to salvage.  

“Spock,” T’Pau impressed on him, “this human makes a grave accusation against me.  If you know she is misleading the Council, and do not admit this, it will only increase the number of charges you face.” 

Finally, Amanda located the memory that made sense of her reaction to Nyota’s name.  This was the girl T’Shin raised.  But she also knew this was the same young woman Sarek challenged to _kae-kwul_ a few months before, and defeated.  She had been furious to learn about it.  What was he allowing to happen now? 

In a voice that sounded too strained for Amanda’s liking, Spock answered the Council.

“I do.  I ... I invoke _kal-i-fee_.”  But his eyes were now fixed on the floor, and his face was bloodless.  She did not concern herself with what the Council might do or say to her now.  She went to him.  

T’Pau spoke.  “Let the challengers prepare themselves.”

Nyota turned to face her opponent, and they reduced the distance between themselves.

When Amanda reached him, Spock was as pliant as a child.  He allowed her to steer him, get him further away from the females who fought for him. 

“What is it?” When they were far enough away, she leaned close to his ear and whispered. 

Spock was shaking his head.  “She cannot …,” 

“What did your father tell you?” 

“He is ...," Spock let out a tremulous breath, trying to compose himself.  "He is confident she will win.” 

Amanda glanced back at the contestants.  Nyota stood ready: arm raised, hand open and facing her opponent.  What was it about her?  Only an insane human could fake this kind of confidence, or believe in anything other than the inevitable outcome.  Lelar had her eyes closed to focus herself. 

From his place on the benches, Sarek looked down on his family and Amanda gave him a face that communicated her ultimatum through their bond.  If his confidence in Nyota's ability was misplaced …. 

The battle began when Lelar opened her eyes.  The two women held an altercation without touching, a staring match for several agonising minutes.  Then Savid’s widow raised her arm, turned her palm and applied the pads of her fingers against Nyota’s, matching digit for digit.

For the first twenty seconds, neither combatant showed any unusual reaction.  Their eyelids fluttered like they were both dreaming, not wrestling.  Then Nyota shifted her weight from one foot to another, and appeared to step back.  Lelar used the advantage.  She flattened her hand to achieve greater skin contact, and a tremor passed through both women's bodies. 

Spock was also shaking.  Amanda searched for and found one of his hands, clasped it.  His thoughts and emotions spilled into her, and she put her other hand against his neck.  Everything he felt centred on a single horror, that he might lose Nyota. 

More minutes passed.  Eventually there was a noise.  Faint, like the first sound of strain escaping through clenched jaws.  But Amanda had long since stopped watching.  She concentrated instead on her son’s face and his soft, suffering eyes.  She was so weary of his struggle, which was also hers.  All the years she had stood aside, waiting to be convinced of Sarek’s view that Spock would seek and succeed in finding his place among Vulcans.  It had been faith in a false hope.  And through their skin contact she told her son the end of this contest might result in her apostasy. 

Spock moved her hand off his neck and used it to cover his face. 

After that a cry went up.  It was horrible, a keen siren from the back of the throat that climbed to a high register until it tore apart the vocal chords so the end of the sound was a ragged screech.  Then it cut.  The weight of a body hit the floor.

So deathly quiet after that, in the council chamber.  The only noise was the laboured breathing of the victorious female.  You could hear she was walking back and forth across the floor as though she were an athlete cooling down after exercise.

Amanda tried to find some inner steel. She needed enough to provide the will to turn about and face the new reality. 

And then she heard Nyota's voice.

"T’Pau, Councillors," she said, “I claim S’chn T’gai Spock as mine.”   


	18. Lost Shadows

Amanda remained on the roof of her house a while longer.  She wanted to watch the slender hovercar as it lifted in a perfect vertical line, and looped twice in the sky to pick up speed.  Then it bore north.  Tonev/Karimu (so intriguing, to take another name in honour of psi bonds with humans) said he intended to reach the _Heyalar t’Arlanga_ range first. Then he would stay close to the mountains going west, in order to avoid the worst electrical storms.

The great grandson of T’Shin had been refreshing company.  Amanda extended an invitation to the family he would re-join in the desert.  They should all come to Shi’Kahr, fill the Ambassador’s residence for a few days and become better acquainted.  After all, they were now related by bond.

Sarek would have made a technical correction to her remarks.  How might he phrase it?

“ _Ashayam_ (he was always affectionate when she was wrong), the _kal-i-fee_ is a combat to the death.  If no one dies, no contest has occurred.  If no contest occurs, there is no bond.”

Strange then, that T’Pau did not insist Nyota finish what she started.  Instead the older woman expressed gratitude for the mercy of the katra of T’Shin, whose healing skills worked through her Terran daughter's hands to repair the damage caused to Lelar.  And the high priestess of Seleya ensured that all Nyota's personal effects, left behind when she was captured, were loaded into Karimu's hovercar.

Once his craft had disappeared from sight, Amanda didn’t hurry back inside.  She went for a stroll.  She followed the red stone wall, elbow height, that bounded the roof of her home.  And when she reached the spot which allowed her to look over that parapet into her garden, she watched her son.

Spock had moved.  He stood halfway down the stone steps which followed the natural slope of their property to a resin gazebo.  It was a place she had designed for retreat, and one Spock often chose when he wished to be alone.  If he had started his descent and stopped himself, he must be torn.  Most likely he wanted to hide, to turn over some problem in his head undisturbed.  And yet he knew this would deny his poor mother, who had not seen him in the flesh for years.

She speculated about what might be on his mind.  Perhaps he was troubled that the High Council chose to defer their decision about his fate.  Nyota’s victory had stunned them.  She had opened a new debate in the ongoing argument about humans, and what Vulcans should or should not do about them.

For her own part, Amanda was optimistic.  Nyota could not be changed.  Not by T’Pau, at any rate.  The matriarch of clan Surak had drawn the Starfleet cadet to one side and attempted to reason with the katra of T’Shin, persuade it to leave its human container.  In response, Nyota issued her second challenge.

“Take it yourself, _sehlat_ cub, if you dare.”

Or perhaps Spock worried about the demands a Vulcan soul might make upon a Terran body.  It was true that, once Nyota left the Council chamber, and was safely concealed inside the diplomatic car, she had swooned.  Spock caught her, cradled her, and when they landed at home he carried her carefully across the roof to the goods elevator.  It gave Amanda time to run down the adjacent stairs to open up his old room, put a fresh cover on the bed.

And yet she still saw no cause for concern.  Vulcans did not fight to the death every day.

No, she decided, it must be something else that preoccupied her only child.  Tonev/Karimu accepted an invitation to tea, and Spock had seemed unusually interested in the conversation, particularly when the Vulcan revealed a long held secret.  The great grandson of T'Shin had a human lover, a geologist named Chibuzo who occasionally conducted research in T’karath.  He had dissolved his childhood bond, and hoped today’s events might lead the Council to take a more relaxed view of mixed marriages.  Spock had listened with that laser focus he reserved for whatever fascinated him, and at one point his lips had parted, which he would not do unintentionally.  He had badly wanted to ask a question.

If Amanda stood where she was much longer Spock would certainly realise he was being watched.  His ears would catch a sound she didn’t realise she was making, the flicker of her sash or jewellery in the wind.  She stepped away from the parapet and went back down into the house.  Picking up a tray as she came through the kitchen, she went to the table on the covered patio where the three of them had taken tea, and started to gather the dishes.

Spock responded with a good son’s conscience and returned to her.  She didn’t try to start a conversation or make eye contact, but let him hover while she worked out the most compact arrangement of cups, saucers and teapot.

“May I assist?” he asked.

Amanda allowed him to carry the tray to the kitchen.  But as she followed him inside, she said, “T’Haar will be cooking and serving us this evening.  We could leave these for her to wash, and you could go back to your room.”

It was the way he set the tray down on the counter, one corner at a time, and the last corner a little too abruptly.  Theirs was such a peculiar way of communicating.  Now she knew the problem had something to do with the bedroom.

“It might be better if I did not disturb Nyota’s sleep,” he said.

Amanda indulged in the luxury of a smile, while he still had his back to her.   Spock, Spock, Spock, Spock, Spock.  Nyota had just risked her life for the exclusive right to have him disturb her sleep.  How were they going to get to the heart of this?

“I have been meaning to deadhead my flowers,” Amanda drew up beside him.  “They are all over the house now.  It’s a much bigger job than it used to be, when you were at home.”

“Perhaps you would benefit if we resumed our former working partnership.”

“Perhaps I would,” she agreed. 

He knew the routine.  The trug and secateurs were stored in the cupboard below him, because this was the place they always started.  From there they worked clockwise through the ground floor, and clockwise within each room from the point of entry.  Marigolds and begonias grew in the kitchen.  Amanda chose the blooms for pruning; Spock trimmed.  If anything needed to be discussed, the subject usually managed to raise itself by the time they were halfway through the geraniums in the music room. 

But Spock held out.  They had finished geraniums, and also the miniature roses in Amanda’s study, without any meaningful exchange.  She had shown him the beautiful bushy bloom on the aloe vera which Spock had grown himself from seed, and now sat on her private terrace.  By then Amanda grew tired of waiting. 

“You have not mentioned how your own flowers are doing.” 

“Mother--,”  

“Who will look after them, while you are here?” 

“In light of this afternoon’s events,” he led the way from her study into the front hall, where she kept several dramatic orchids, “it would no longer seem necessary to employ our methods of indirect communication.” 

“I agree,” she said.  “Let us be direct.  What is on your mind, Spock?  Why are you indulging your mother when you have a new bondmate?” 

Word for word, he became an echo of his father.

“We have not, strictly speaking, been bonded.  The challenge of _kal-i-fee_ \--,” 

“And is this what matters to you?  The ‘strictly speaking’ part?  You should consider how much you revealed while you held my hand.” 

Spock dropped the secateurs into her trug, and turned away. 

“Tell me,” she pleaded, “is it so terrible?” 

His shoulders rose and fell with the effort of sighing.  That meant yes, it was.

“We--,” he had not used the first person plural before, combining his identity and Nyota's into a single word.  "We have already--,"

“I can guess that much,” Amanda stopped him.  She glanced down into the trug, wanting to retrieve the secateurs. “So then what ...,"

Botany provided her with an insight -- all those brown petalled flowers.  "Ah, I think I may know.” 

Spock did not turn round.  But he did tilt his head to put his right ear in a better position to receive whatever she would say next. 

“There is no term in modern Vulcan for it,” she explained.  “T’Shin might know whether any of the ancient dialects –- well, anyway, that tells you just how carefully this secret is kept.”

She walked out of the hall and into the formal reception room, to see if her son would follow.  He trailed her like a puppy.

“Apparently," she went on, "the knowledge may only be transmitted from woman to woman.  It is typical for a mother to instruct her daughter.  Vulcan males never speak of it.”

She lifted the understated blooms of the nearest jade plant and judged them past their best.  She held out the secateurs and Spock took them obediently. 

“T’Pau had to teach me.  And the way she described it--,”

Amanda tried, but could not help herself.  It was only a little laughter, air forced through her nose.  “I thought your father would be seriously ill.” 

“It is an illness?” he asked. 

“Oh Spock,” she put a hand on his arm, “it’s just a natural high.  Other humanoid species experience similar reactions, to a greater or lesser degree.” 

“Including Terrans?” 

“No, not Terrans.  Though I expect we may have done, at some remote time in our past, which might explain why we are so drawn to substances which create the same effect.” 

They finished the jade plants, and pruned the top branches of the twin bonsai trees.

“I would prefer more moderate symptoms,” Spock confessed. 

“You will develop a tolerance,” Amanda assured him.  “The reaction is strongest after a long period of abstinence, or a change of partner.  That is why newly bonded pairs are relieved of social obligations for several months.  Given time, the effects will remain…uplifting, but they will no longer impair you.” 

The reception room led to the dining room, where each corner had a basket suspended from the ceiling, dripping with grape ivy.

“You did not--,” Spock began, but seemed to lose his nerve when she stopped examining the leaves on the first plant to look at him.  “That is to say, if Terrans are not accustomed to such …,” 

“You want to know if disliked it.” 

Spock was overwhelmed by this truth made audible, and dropped his head to stare at his own feet.

First he echoes his father, Amanda thought, and then he imitates him.  She decided to do exactly what she had done twenty-nine years ago, when Sarek stood before her in the same attitude, not sure how or whether to apologise.   She went up and planted a kiss on his unsuspecting forehead.  Then she watched as Spock raised his eyes to study her smiling face until he seemed relieved (he blinked twice), and satisfied by her reassurance. 

“The ivy can wait another day.”  Amanda took the secateurs from him.  “Go to your room now.  Your father and I will dine when he returns from special sessions, but you will not be expected to join us.” 

***

A song.  Dreaming minds can do that, replay well known tunes.  Nyota could hear the flute solo from the second of Osbourne Agloo’s Fire series, and she stirred.  The bed cover had a spicy scent.  She took three breaths, and that was when the flute solo started to play all over again.  When it began a third time, she had to work out why her brain could not get past the first twelve bars. 

Not a song.  An arrangement of similar notes, yes, which she picked out herself because she did not like any of the preset sound files for her PADD.  She had chosen this one for text messages.  But why would she dream about her alert?  

A sudden realisation woke her and lifted her head off the pillow.  She blinked away her blurred vision.  The flute solo started a fourth time.  PADD, her PADD – she packed it inside the unassuming bag Spock gave her, so unassuming no one would guess she was human, so unassuming she didn’t exactly remember what it had looked like.  

She crawled out of bed, and got to know the room she occupied for the first time.  The nearest thing was a three cornered bronze table, flanked by a tall cabinet the right size for a ka’athyra and a coiling acrylic sculpture embedded with what appeared to be dried seaweed.  Passing the sculpture, she arrived at the doors of a dressing room.  When she opened these it allowed her to hear Osbourne Agloo's composition played at a louder volume.  She walked inside.  Her bag lay on the floor near the back, and she could see her tablet screen lit up through the fabric of an external pocket.  She pulled it out, sat down, opened the device.  And she smiled, because Gaila’s name appeared on the message header. 

- _Tiberious is dead_ -

Nyota brushed the hair out of her face with her free hand.

- _Tiberious is dead_ -

She read it again, out loud.  Such an abrupt note, three words, no extras -- a bite of information.  She scrolled down to read more, but there wasn’t any more.  Well, she thought, even Gaila must have subjects that didn’t inspire her usual love for conversation.

And what else was there to say?  Nyota wasn’t interested in when or where or how.

- _Tiberious is dead_ -

Or maybe Gaila sensed how much she would need silence after those words.  To lose that shadow, the haunted feeling he had implanted in her subconscious like a sixth sense – it had become so familiar its absence caused her an initial imbalance.  She breathed out hard through puffed cheeks, shook her head and finally smiled.  It was okay.  The light coming into the place which had so long been dark, that was okay.

She sent Gaila a reply.

– _Sorry for silence.  Been busy.  Thanks so much for this_ - 

And then she waited.  True to form, her roommate didn’t take long.

\- _Was it the kind of busy that needed the bikini?_ -

“What?” she said aloud.  She sent back a single word question.  - _Bikini?-_  

Then she heard someone enter the bedroom.

“Nyota?”

Gaila’s response was close to immediate.  - _Bottom of the bag, wrapped in tissue paper_ -

“I’m in here,” Uhura called out, as she dug down in the bag and felt for something with the correct texture.  Sure enough … she pulled out the little parcel and set it on her lap.  Then she typed a response.

- _Gaila, sunbathing may well be a criminal offence on Vulcan_ - 

He had walked inside the dressing room and was standing behind her. 

- _Show it to Spock then-_  That was Gaila's bright idea.  -S _ee what he suggests_ - 

“Are you well?” he asked 

She set PADD and parcel on the floor.  Then she stretched her arms over her head.  Spock caught her hands and let her use his weight to counterbalance hers as she pulled herself to her feet.  They stood for a minute connected that way, and let the tentative beginnings of feeling seep into each other’s fingers.  Nyota leaned back against him. 

“I am moved,” he said, “that you would lay claim to me.  When we were on Earth, it seemed you did not--,” 

She pulled his arms around her, nice and tight, and it brought him over speechless.  She squeezed his hands.

“T’Shin urges me not to doubt or deny what I want any longer.” 

She felt his mouth land gently on top of her head.  He let out a soft sigh.  Then his nose made a parting in her hair, and inhaled as it smoothed the tresses down one side as far as her ear.

"What ...," he murmured.  "What do you want?"

She released his hands, turned slowly in his embrace, reached up and placed her fingers over his meld points. 

“I want what I fought for.” 

T’Shin drove this.  Nyota had never initiated a mind meld.  It felt like diving into dark water, with the initial disorientation and gradual adjustment of psi vision to the strange liquid environment of another set of thought processes.  There were emotions bumping against her, preventing deeper access, as well as a question he wanted to ask her mother. 

The katra of T'Shin sent its reply into their blended consciousness.

“Amanda is partly correct.  There is a modern Vulcan word for the phenomenon, but its meaning has changed.  She will say _shok_   to describe a kiss.  Were she able to study the Nataki and Insular Golic texts up to the third century, she would find the same word referred to the effect of a kiss.  In addition, Nataki built compound words, to compare the potency of kisses.  _Shok bru-lar_ , a kiss on the lips, gave the mildest stimulation.  We have found written debates concerning _shok ka-luk, shok thasek, shok coi’a_ and _shok nehg_ , as to which of these kisses – applied to ears, breasts, buttocks or belly, was stronger, and to what degree.  But regarding _shok kotic_ and _shok ko-lok_ , there was unanimity.  These had no equal.  The first century poet Se Jylk Sketes called them 'the surest way to sweet oblivion’. 

Nyota could feel they were kissing.  Each touch brought filtered light into their meld, the way sunshine looks when viewed from underwater.  As Spock’s wary emotions withdrew, the bond grew brighter and gradually Uhura surfaced into full daylight.  An excited flurry of meetings began.  Nyota felt as though her memories had stepped off a ship onto a dock where they were eagerly awaited by just as many of his own.  These were matching recollections of all the times they met -- from the lecture he covered in Non-Terran Cultures to the Dean’s Dinner, the unintended eye contact during the Recruitment Fair in Iowa to the day he moved into North Axis apartment. 

Nyota saw his perspective through the knothole in the back fence and heard herself gasp.  The meld dimmed slightly with Spock’s embarrassment, though it did not stop him kissing her.  Simultaneously, they acknowledged that Gaila’s particular expertise, brought to bear at this critical juncture, had been invaluable.  They would not have achieved this much, this quickly, without her help. 

“And she keeps on helping,” Nyota told him.

She began the process of disconnection, taking her fingers away one at a time.  The sensations of external reality replaced the temporary override of the meld, though not quite.  As she watched his eyes reopen she could still feel, faintly, how curious he was to hear what she would say next.

“She hid it in my luggage,” Nyota explained.

A reluctant Spock had to loose his hold on her, so she could bend down and grasp the tissue paper parcel.  She unwrapped it slowly.  Too slowly – his hand reached down to play in her hair and reveal the catalogue of physiological disruption she had caused in him.  She caused a little more by letting her hand rake up the front of his leg as she stood and displayed the open nest of paper with its contents. 

They had kissed enough to interfere with some involuntary control, because his mouth turned up at the corners.  He tried to correct the muscle movements, which made him look as though he had swallowed something he disliked.

“Spock,” she moved the hand on his leg to rest against his chest, “humans enjoy smiles, remember?” 

And then, when he relented and let his mouth and eyes express his pleasure, she added, “Would you like me to wear this now?” 

“Yes.” 

She sent him out of the wardrobe with instructions to undress himself.  Admittedly, even she felt the cultural disconnect when she removed her belt, both robes and the generously cut Vulcan undergarments, replacing them with two slips of synythester that barely covered anything.  But she forgot that the second she stepped out from her hiding place and saw the breath-taking beauty of his nakedness in daylight, and the way his lok rose a little higher at the sight of her. 

They meant to use the bed.  But they never got further than the elliptical rug in the middle of his room.  By the time they finally discarded the soaked bikini, Spock had developed incurable giggles, which she set off every time she invented a new noise to signal the point at which his tongue dissolved her skeletal structure and left her nothing but a quivering assembly of nerves and skin, with red alert sirens shrieking inside her head. 

END OF "THE ARCHITECTURE OF EMOTION"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Readers, if you enjoyed The Architecture of Emotion, there is a follow on episode, a festive themed interlude titled "Alpha Incognito". It's set during the 2257/58 holiday break at Starfleet Academy, the first Christmas for my version of Spock and Nyota as a couple. Please visit http://archiveofourown.org/works/8269961/chapters/18946577  
> And I intend to keep writing after that, balancing fanfic production with university work. If you'd like to bookmark the series "Soul Possessions", and make sure you don't miss anything, please visit http://archiveofourown.org/series/555232


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